Noah Versus the Volcano

Dear Mr. V:

This just isn't working out for me.

I mean, as if I weren't feeling enough anxiety as it is over not posting a blog lately--as if I hadn't been sitting at my computer every afternoon during the girls 45 minute 'nap' (HA!) trying to think of something to say and coming up with nothing. As if I didn't feel bad enough about that already--

Now I get home from Target (I didn't crack this time and only let each girl pick one item from the dollar section [they picked the cotton candy both, sorry]) and what do I find in my inbox but a note from you politely demanding more blogs please.

Something witty, you say, but not chipper. You do not like it when I come across as chipper. (You know I am not chipper in real life).

Well. I haven't posted a blog in a week and I've realized the fault, as it almost always is with matters between us, is yours.

I don't see you enough anymore. When I leave before 7 every morning you are sleeping in bed or sometimes on the couch (by your choice, I would like to add, and not by angered wifely force). (I don't mind, I know you sleep better with the tv on.) Our children are rolled up like swaddled babies again and snoring in their room. It's just getting light out and sometimes I feel bad for leaving you. Alone with the girls for four and a half hours before going to work for an eight hour day! But I know when I get back, you will have fed the girls, and made sure they're wearing clothes--clothes that don't match, yes, or that might be a little dirty, but clothes nonetheless--and underwear and shoes.

Maybe with socks.Maybe with hair brushed but usually not. I know you don't enjoy the sweet symphony of their frantic screams during hair brushing the way I do. That's fine.

You will have cleaned up the kitchen and the living room a little bit. You will even have cleaned up the wet tea bag I left sitting on the counter or put away the almond butter and honey that I left out.

(Well, if you are in a really good mood you will have done that. Sometimes you clean around my little messes and leave my baggies and lids and knives out on the counter. It's ok, I understand. Usually I leave all your dirty socks on the floor. Although right now I would like to point out that the thick moss of hair you leave in the sink after shaving your head is much worse than a couple of dirty dishes. Just saying.)

Then I leave, and I don't see you again until 8 at night. Eight at night! We get to spend the drive home together. You'll tell me about work and I'll tell you about hearing Ayla scream "Mooooom, Indy's PEEING out here!" loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. Then we put the girls to bed and by then I am too tired to enjoy you and I fall asleep before I want to.

So you see, I miss you.

I more than miss you. I despair. And in my despair, I find myself unable to write or to throw my used Irish tea bags in the trash.

I want you to come home right now, and snuggle with us on the couch. Come home and you will make me something delicious to eat and this time I will pour the drinks. We never have time to get drunk and talk about God anymore. We never talk anymore at all. (I know it doesn't help when you try to start a conversation and I, rather tersely, tell you that I just sat down with a book.) (Maybe next time start the conversation before I sit down with the book?)

Remember when we used to sit at Barnes and Noble together for hours and hours? We used to read and talk about things other than school supplies and work schedules. Now we crash on the couch together and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But one day soon our kids will be leaving for college--I'll be wrinkly and wearing Lee jeans, you'll be deaf and senile but still getting carded at the liquor store--and then what? We'll miss those times when we were too exhausted to do anything but watch Buffy. We'll probably miss Buffy too, while we're at it. You will miss her lithe body and commanding tones and I will miss her lithe body and commanding tones.

I'll be all like, "What kind of girls have you raised not to call their mother!"

And you'll be like, "WHAT???"

And then I hope I will throw my dentures at you.

(You are going to be the one to go senile because you watch tv while I read books. Buffy and BSG don't make one senile, but I know for a fact that Top Chef and Iron Chef and Captain Chef and Cheffy Chef do)

I've forgotten to tell you things like:

sorry I was such a wreck before Indy's party. I hate throwing parties. Next time I'm going to opt out, ok? You think up a child's birthday party full of microbeers and pipe tobacco and Conan the Barbarian and that's fine. I'll just go along with it.

I keep fantasizing that we'll get on the wrong plane when we leave for Vegas and you and I will end up somewhere like Bora Bora or Bismark and I won't care because I'll have three days finally alone with quiet and you.

I know we've been dreaming of going to California alone next year for our 30th birthdays but I keep wondering if we shouldn't take the girls to Disneyland instead? Then I remember the thoughts I stated above and realize I'm crazy.

Then I think about taking the girls to Disneyland again. . .

I'm proud of you for finally becoming a brewer. Even though everyone I've met since you became one doesn't drink beer. Even though I keep offering free beer to people who turn out to be recovering alcoholics.

Thank you for throwing away my dirty tea bags.

Well here it is. You asked for a blog that was witty. Sorry. But I think you will find what this one lacks in wit it makes up for in vim? I like it when you compare to me to Buffy and those other two women you compared me to. I also think that if we keep seeing each other as little as we do, we can go strong for around another ten years without getting terribly sick of each other.

Oh and look at your daughter. She is so beautiful it took my breath away.




That's your daughter, Noah. YOUR DAUGHTER, AYLA. That's AYLA your DAUGHTER. Nevermind.

Love,
Vesuvius



I am Vesuvius and I was very proud of myself when I came up with the title for this post.