Twelve.

I'm not a doctor and I don't spend the graveyard shift saving lives. My kids don't have the flu (although by writing that, you know I'm jinxed), and my puppy has issues, but not explosive ones that require me to clean the floors more often than most. And yet, yesterday morning I still felt a little put out by the situation I found myself in.

The husband has been traveling. A LOT. And I'm used to it because it's his industry and we've been together for a hundred years, so I get it. When he's gone, life falls to me. A lot of things get easier when he's out of town. There is less laundry, less food to cook, less parental banter (read: bickering) about the kids and the puppy. But overall, it's more work for me. So in addition to my day job and my teaching on the side, it's up to me to make a meal plan, get groceries, keep track of the hot lunch/play date/Brownies/snack/birthday parties/child care/field trip and class party organization/laundry/sign ups for ballet and piano/et-freaking-cetera.

Who am I kidding? The man does a mean load of laundry (folding not included), and he's way better than I am on the grill, but the rest of the above ends up on my plate whether he's home or away. But sometimes, after all the solo multitasking, mama needs a break. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy he's home again, and in our bed, and there for us all, but I still want a little reprieve.

So the other morning I thought, let's go crazy. I'm going to take a class and then have coffee with a dear friend. Nuts, right? Living life right on the edge. I made it to class and afterwards could almost taste the coffee, when I received a text message asking me to "just come home". Wha?? Come home?

No. I don't want to come home. What I want to do is spend an hour or so jumping off the high dive with a friend into a vat of coffee, and swimming around with all the good stuff that she shares about her life. I don't want to come home and talk about 1) why the puppy is acting weird and 2) why the kids are acting weird and 3) why his job is weird enough that he has to start answering text messages at 6:00am on a Saturday and 4) why I'm acting like a salty, complaining, weird cherry on top. I already have those answers: 1) He barfed a SOCK on Friday night, 2) They are hormonal, bored, and enjoy torturing us, 3) Football people aren't like regular people, and 4) BECAUSE I DIDN'T GET TO GO HAVE COFFEE WITH MY FRIEND.

Seriously, right?

Alas.

I broke the plans to get caffeinated with my gracious pal, and came home. And man, was I salty.

Because in my mind, I'm thinking, I have been doing it all, alone, for days on end. And the load, she isn't light. We've got things to handle on a daily basis. Kids and parents and that sock-eating puppy and all the rest. When he comes home, I want to throw him the keys, run fast in the other direction, and be gone for at least a couple of hours. I don't even care what I'm running towards. I'll drive back and forth on the freeway, as long as I can get a chai latte on my way and listen to the music of my choice. And by "my choice" I mean almost anything except for the Bieber Christmas CD or sports talk radio.

In the husband's mind, I venture to guess, all he wants to do is reconnect and talk about what is too much to text about when he's on the road, and co-parent for the short time he's here before he has to leave us again.

See? Now I feel like a huge bitch. And I don't even like that word when it's aimed at me unless I'm on the dance floor with friends, in which case we're all up IN that bitch.

You may be asking, what's my point. I actually have no idea, I'm just blogging it off my chest. Again, I never promised this would be fascinating.

All I'm saying is that today, when I went to the grocery store, I picked up a chai latte on the way, and when I had to make three stops instead of one, I was almost giddy. I was alone, finally, and just in time because he leaves town again tomorrow. So I just sipped my tea and I spoke to nobody except the checkout people. And yes, I made eye contact and offered a smile. Why wouldn't I? I was happy as a farm-raised clam.

I didn't rush home, either. Nope. I took my sweet time up in that bitch. 

:)