About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.
Monday, June 13, 2016
And on Sunday night in the driveway...
Everyone had meltdowns last night. The cat was even off.
It had been a busy weekend, and by 7 o'clock everyone—including me and Chuck—were cooked. I felt badly handing the kids over to the sitter, but it was almost bedtime and Chuck and I seriously needed some adult time.
Everett took our departure the worst. He held onto my leg and begged me not to go. The sitter scooped him up (this move should be mandatory in sitters) and suggested they play Candy Land. Thankfully he obliged.
We made it to the car and were sitting in the driveway, engine running, when Junior raced outside. I sighed, exasperated. Chuck shook his head. What now?
Junior motioned for me to roll down the window.
"What is it?" I groaned.
"I have to tell you something," Junior whispered.
"Hurry up," Chuck said tersely, "we have a dinner reservation."
"I know how Everett feels," Junior said into my ear.
"Right now," Junior said. "I know he feels."
"About what, honey? We're running late. Please just spit it out."
"Yah, Junior. We need to hustle."
Junior sighed, annoyed with us for rushing what he apparently felt was a monumental declaration. "Everett is crying because when you're gone, it's like our comfort is gone! And it just hurts a little. Even though we know you're coming back. Our comfort is gone. That's why we cry."
He kissed my cheek and ran back into the house.
Chuck and I sat there.
"It's, like, harder when they can talk," Chuck finally said.
"Yes," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. "It absolutely is."
We left for dinner.