It’s been an emotional week. This week was my second-to-last week at work. It was also the week of the 20-day mark: 20 days until we move to Houston. This also means it’s been 70 days since I haven’t been in the same house with my husband, let alone the same state. Distance makes the heart grow fonder? More like “distance makes the mind go a little batty, especially when you haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in days.”
Yup, that’s where I’m at.
It hasn’t been an emotional roller coaster. It has been more like an emotional game show:
“What will happen once our contestant gets to work?”
“How many hours of sleep do you think our contestant can lose and still stay functional, audience?”
“10:00 pm, and the daughter is still up! I’m sorry, ma’am, you bet the daughter would sleep by 10, but she is still up. Sorry. You get some excellent consolation prizes though.”
“When her husband calls her at 11:00 pm, is Liana capable of having a normal conversation? Survey said…”
And so on.
I don’t think this week has been crazier than usual. It’s just that this week I officially got antsy: I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay home, I wanted to be in Houston, I wanted to hug everyone at work, I wanted to buy takeout every day and not cook, I wanted to hide from people. I argued with my husband about him forgetting that I had planned a Goodbye Happy Hour for this weekend. One morning I woke up, feeling sad, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I’ve had to deal with toddler grumpiness at 1:00 am, which in turn made me a little grumpy. And then yesterday I left my last All-Staff meeting at the main campus, happy and melancholic, all at once.
I tried my best to create some sort of stability in my daughter’s life and in mine. I came up with weekend activities for us to do. I tried to put her to bed at a reasonable time every night. I made breakfast for us on weekends and let her watch tv after dinner. I played my husband’s broadcast in the kitchen while I cleaned up, so that at least his voice was in the house, even if he was in a different time zone. At work I continued to pack my schedule at work, making sure I covered all bases before my departure. I planned lunch with friends. I got my hair cut. I willed myself to continue to wake up at 5:00 am to write, like I used to before my husband left. 90 days seemed like they would come and go in no time.
But this week I realized we were so close to Houston and yet so far away from Moving Day. We’re home but we’re not. Maybe it’s because we’re surrounded by boxes and empty bookcases. Maybe it’s because I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in over a week. Maybe it’s because I’m a little anxious. Maybe it’s because I miss having my husband around and the phone no longer
seems to bridge substitutes the distance between us. We’re still hundreds of miles away, and we feel it like a cut in the skin.
“welcome home” by Flickr user R..D, borrowed under Creative Commons License 2.0
Today I’m feeling better. The idea of time with friends this weekend has lifted my spirits. And next week will swoosh by before I even have the chance to sit down and think about how many days are left. However, this separation hasn’t been easy. I’m leaving this post here to honor not just the good times but also the tough times. They happen too.