Dear hubby who travels too much...

Dear {darling} traveling husband,

We've entered the home stretch of a two-week stint where you've been home for a total of 26.7 hours.  Just enough time for me to launder, dry, and return your garments to you, so they can be tidily packed into your too-commonly-used carry on suitcase.  California last week {boo freakin hoo}, and this week {snarky tone drumroll please}...England.  Are.you.freaking.serious.  Not only have I had span of time where I had a ridiculous, on-the-verge-of-mildly-crazy obsession with having children that speak with a British accent, but I have I spent countless hours reading up on the life and times of the royals.  {Yes.  Tabloids still count as reading!}  And, perhaps the strongest argument I have in my corner: my {inner, completely sane, non-stalkerish} connection with the Beckhams is such that I feel Victoria and David were in London this week {thanks to my 'reading', I know this to be fact} specifically because they might cross paths with me.

But am I there?  Um. No.  I am not.

Instead, I sit here on our couch, being heel-kicked by an overly tired toddler who is showing absolutely NO signs of being ready for bed.  Earlier today, I had the joyous experience of cleaning up her piddle on the carpet for what happened to be only about the 35th time in the past two weeks.  I've reached the point where I'm debating just how traumatizing a visit from CPS would be on the kids when they discover that I am literally duct-taping her diaper to her body.  How, you ask, would they discover this?  Well when said toddler decides to 'help' me answer the door wearing nothing but her cowgirl boots, it would only be a matter of time before word gets out from the poor, unsuspecting deliverymen that agents would be knocking on our door to discover that her Elmo emblazoned Pampers are being held on supersecurely by the gloriousness that is duct tape.

And while we're on the topic of duct tape, would it be considered a faux pas if I happened to used it to secure our bathroom doors {that oddly lack a locking mechanism} shut so that I could snag even 17 minutes to shower {without an audience}, put on makeup {without tiny hands literally destroying everything in my makeup bag}, and maybe...just maybe go to the bathroom without Raegan deciding how much toilet paper I should use {read half the friggin roll}?

You see, it's not that I resent you for travelling for work; nor do I envy you having to stay in a hotel room alone, eating yummy food that you didn't have to prepare {not that you're Mr. Chef here at home.  Shit, you're not even Chef Boyardee.  You could possibly pass as a bus boy}.  No, no...I don't wish that I spent time flying solo, driving a fun little rental car, and not having to care for anyone but yourself.  I'm not saying I would trade places with you.

I'm saying I'd give my right arm for it.  And possibly my left.

And yet you have the audacity to tell me that you hate travelling.

You know I love you.  You know I'm so grateful for your hard work and all you do for us.  But really.  I want to scream laugh in your face.

You can't tell me there isn't a teeny, tiny part of you that is enjoying these little 'breaks from hell reality'.  Sure, I don't know what it's like to travel for work beyond the freakinghourandfifteenminutes {each.damn.way.} that I used to spend transporting our gaggle of geese to their respective care givers before mad-dashing down the hallway to my classroom in hopes that I'd get in before the kids so I could scribble the date and objectives up on the board, along with the independent morning work that I so blissfully relied on each day for the first 15 minutes so that I could a.) catch my breath, b.) snarf down whatever the hell it was that I scrounged up in the depths of my overstuffed yet under-utilized teacher bag, and c.) make sure I had a freaking concept of what I was teaching that day because while I had every blessed intention of looking over the material the night before, you can guarantee one, two, or all three of our *darlings* provided me with at least one, {or a dozen} reasons why I had to yet again leave my work sitting pathetically alone on the stool where it fell off my shoulder earlier this evening as I rushed through the door to begin preparing dinner so they would stop whining that they were hungry {breathe}.

Yes, I don't know the stresses and annoyances of travelling as often as you have to, I don't know what it's like to be away from your {amazing, fantastic, always well-put-together-never-without-makeup} wife and {wonderfully behaved, ever obedient} children for as often as you are.  And, if the roles were reversed, travel would eventually take its toll on me, wear me down, and make me dread the long, annoying process of getting from point A to point B.

But...if the roles were reversed, would you not be ever-so-slightly jealous of the opportunity to have a break, an escape, a few days to change things up a little and put a tweak in your routine {or, rather, non-existent-except-for-in-the-magical-land-of-make-believe routine}? There are only so many days I can legally wear these {mildly} threadbare yoga pants, hole-laden tee shirt, and haphazard, messy updo with two of my three kids still wiping the sleep out of their eyes while donning mismatched {and probably pee-covered} pajamas in the drop-off line for school before CPS pays me a visit for reasons besides a naked toddler with a duct-tape diaper.  Only so many times I can spend days on end relying on hastily prepared meals that taste mildly like cardboard so that I can split my time between playing with quasi-supervising {while simulatenously responding to emails} outside and running back inside to add the powdered cheese and 1/4 cup of milk to the 'meal' I jokingly think meets some crazy nutritional standard because the box says 'cheese'.  Only so many nights I can handle lonely, sleepless nights with the television light speckling whatever rest I do get {because I need the background noise when you're not home}.

I *love* being a mom, and a recently crowned stay-at-home one at that...but that doesn't mean that every now and then {at least 3 times a day}, I envision an opportunity to swap places with you, if even just for a day or two.  Actually, 4.  4 days of glorious, blissful time where I can yearn for you and the kids from the comforts of my own hotel room.  Where I can read, sleep, write, check out the local hot spots, and enjoy a snippet of time when I can quiet the madness and drink in the wine peace.  4 days when I can see just how hard it is to be away from our home, our kids, our reality.  And love you even more for the sacrifices you make to give us the life that we have.  And, lastly, 4 days where you can see just how much having your spouse out of town while still maintaining business as usual at home can wear.you.down.  {I wonder what the male equivalent of yoga pants might be?}

Smooches {from afar, because I sure as shit didn't get a chance to shower today},

Wifey