It's been a tiring couple of days. The Man is out of town and while it is true that I solo parent during the week, I miss his presence. There is a rhythm, an inhale and exhale, to our lives together. An underlying comfort in knowing that I can go downstairs to his office and plop down there to unload. I rarely do, but I can.
And then, at the end of our days we find each other, at 10:00PM when he is finally off work and the kids are in bed (or on their way there). And we have a routine, even if just for an hour. Recorded TV shows. A ratty beige blanket. First sitting side by side and then eventually with my head on a pillow in his lap. Sometimes television will turn to conversation, more often sleep finds me first. My daughter says we are not romantic, but I laugh. "There are better things than romance" I tell her but she doesn't believe me. She can't comprehend the beauty and peace in a collective sharing of our loads, a happiness in being together, in just being. I hope that someday she will.
He is the last one up at night and closes up the house. Locks up the doors. Recovers the sandbox, puts things back in their rightful place. He makes sure the animals are fed and turns on the monitor. Simple things I rarely notice. But today our sandbox filled with water from the rains. And it was good, for I noticed his absence. And it is nice to be missed.
And that absence is even more pronounced tonight because my oldest son, has left me crumpled in a heap of worry and anger. About things I cannot share, but wish I could. He's a ghost on this blog, by his own demands, but never think that his place in my heart is not as substantial and ingrained as all the rest. I often find myself wishing I could share my joys and trials of life with him - the way he makes me pull out my hair and laugh in spite of myself. I see the gaping hole of his absence here, and it bothers me. My story has a character missing. The main character tonight. My smart, funny, boy with the potential he cannot see.