Not after the kids, or between work and the house. I mean, I do, of course, but when I say “I have to run,” it’s not because I’m looking for a nice way to finish a long phone conversation, or “I have to run” when I realize my daughter is waiting for me to pick her up from school and I completely forgot.
It was the end of a six-week period in which my guy was on-call, and I could hardly remember my name. During these weeks, the most my girls get to see of him is a glimpse of his shadow when they wake up in the middle of the night crying because they miss him.
I was 38 years old, with 3 girls in the backseat of my car, 13 years of marital bliss, an impressive resume of several management positions, 4 years into our overseas adventure, and less than a year to our return date, when I decided I needed to know what I wanted to be when I grow up.
“Mom, this afternoon I’m going to have a birthday party at our house. I invited all of my preschool friends, and they will be here at 4 pm. Can I get a Barbie doll?”. I was almost 5 years old, and the colors that changed on my mom’s face when I announced this wonderful news reminded me of the colorful stickers I used on the invitations I’d handed out to my friends.
“G-E-T O-U-T O-F M-Y R-O-O-M!!”. For the first time in 11 years, it was me who was doing the screaming. But this time, instead of a door slam following the invective, I could hear an excited giggle and a door quietly closed behind the intruder.
