Dear Husband,
I want you to know how deeply you are missed when work calls you away to far off lands, like California. And I’m not talking about how much your daddy’s girls miss you. I’m talking about how much I, your wife and best friend, miss you.
I don’t miss you solely because you are the protector of this family and because I know that if anyone dared to cross the threshold of this home you would kill that S.O.B with your bare hands. (Although that is a bonus!) I miss your presence. I miss you being in the living room at the beginning of the evening hours, as dinner is winding down and the crazy kids are winding up. Yeah, we don’t get to talk much. We’re not having any in-depth discussions on the state of the world or religion or art or scientific discoveries. We’re barely managing to hear each other and sometimes, not even hearing our own thoughts. That doesn’t matter to me. We’re not snuggled up on the couch, watching the latest hit TV show or, more realistically for us, the newest murder porn series or documentary. Don’t care. You’re close enough, even though you’re across the room with a floor full of toys and dolls and elderly dogs and screaming, giggling, wrestling children separating us. I miss you sitting in your chair, trying to finish up work, which is hard to do because those two tiny souls we created want your undivided attention. I miss your “grump face look”, as the Big One calls it, while you try to focus enough to read an article or scroll through your latest news feeds on your phone. I miss your rants about current events that I should also be fired up about but because all I ever read these days are children’s picture books and, let’s be honest, my FaceBook feed, I’m totally clueless. I miss you telling me about your day at the office, home office or real office, doesn’t matter. I don’t know your coworkers but your stories about them are as close as I’m going to get today at having adult social interaction. I miss watching you play with our toddler MMA fighters, as they bounce on you and attack you with their Mighty Claws and they dance with you to Cyndi Lauper’s greatest hits from the 80’s. I miss the noise and the laughter and the madness. I miss having you here to share the girls’ latest milestones or stumbles or hysterics, to share eye rolls and silent “WTF?’s” when the toddler tantrums are drama times 1000.
But the true kicker, the spit on your neck, kick you in the crotch fantastic thing is: I miss you during our bedtime routine. I know it’s crazy. I’m racing from bathrooms to bedrooms, from rocking chairs to recliners, spilling milk bottles, searching, endlessly, for stoppers and blankies and random stuffed animals, letting the dogs out, letting the dogs in, and repeating the whole series at least once more. I’m usually worn out, exhausted, irritable, covered in snot and pee and what I hope is chocolate and I’m often left downright pissed off. Those tiny energy vacuums we whipped up with the grace of God just about kill me every single night. But when you are here and I get to lean in for the last goodnight kiss, my heart melts, my soul heals, and all is right with the world again.
Hurry home, Daddy. All 3 of your girls are waiting.