The Era of the Traveling Daddy

‘Till death do us part?  Sure, but don’t you have to go to Connecticut next week – I’m behind on my CSI’s…..

 On our recent trip to our former and beloved hometown of Tallahassee (we miss and love you, but not the 110% humidity), I was frequently asked of our new life in West Chester and with sympathetic eyes the baited question hit me:  “Is Gregg still traveling so much?” As with most things in the deep South, there is often a veiled intonation.  Something tells me that they are really trying to say is:  “Do you think during his travels Gregg is banging midget strippers at the Motel 6 off I- 95?”

 I try to balance my response by explaining how he is able to make it home more frequently for dinner because PHL actually has direct flights and Connecticut is a mere 4 hour drive from our home.  How in Gregg’s absence I have my Dad’s help, and I am sure with plentiful and frequent doses of medication I will get by just fine in March with a newborn and Thing #1 and Thing #2.   But the honest truth (because that’s all The Hyphenista preaches) is that I get all tingly inside when I see that black roller suitcase packed up by the front door.  I squeal like a little pig in heat. I’m telling you, it’s just like being 16 and defying my parents again.  I can stay up late, watch the latest episode of True Blood vampire porn, drink too much cheap white wine (prior to being impregnated), put the fan on high…all in solitude.  And I don’t even have to make the bed…

 I know this makes me a bad person and I am ok with that.  If you haven’t already, you shall shortly ascertain the fact that I. Am. The. Worst. Wife. EVER.  Truly.  For those ex boyfriends out there who weren’t scared off by the obese, loony pregnant Gina, they should be grateful they avoided my atrocious wifery.  I am a night owl (reading Vanity Fair magazine in bed while The Bill Payer sleeps), amateur hoarder, hate to clean, and passively aggressively do not turn my husband’s socks inside out if I am forced to fold his laundry.  Gregg, in turn, rises with the chirping birdies, hates clutter, loves to clean and has laundry skills that would put most housekeepers to shame.  When Gregg travels, I have no worries of getting in trouble for my lack of wifing skills.  

 But, alas, as I said in my vows, to quote the great Anne Bancroft about her husband Mel Brooks, “Every time I hear the key in the door, I get so excited. The party is about to start!”  So, my second favorite thing about Gregg traveling?  When he comes home and I try to share a minute by minute recount of the weeks’ events without taking a breath……..awwwwwwwwwwwwwww. kissy kissy.

 I know I’m not alone …. My friend Jamie, who lives internationally, was often separated from her husband while he was in Cameroon and she and their daughter in DC.  I remember her many anguished tearful telephone calls of missing Brian. (In many, many ways.  Check out her article on the Intercontinental Quickie (www.nerve.com/content/true-stories-the-intercontinental-quickie).

 Ok, Weekday Widows, you know who you are.  Comment away on your guilty pleasures when your husband breaks camp…you know you secretly love the respite from shaving your legs and picking up dirty underwear…..shout it out!

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