Kristi

Border control may be a hot political debate, but it’s also a sore subject at my house—I mean our house—right now.  I’ve been living alone for six months again, and while my husband has been deployed there’s been no armed guard making sure that my clothes respect the boundaries in the closet. The arsenal of beauty products that I use to keep from scaring small children with my “natural beauty” has slowly inched over onto my husband’s side of the counter; now that border is completely unrecognizable! And don’t even get me started on the kitchen. Aside from the three bites of Rice Chex and a sack full of Christmas candy leftover from my parents’ visit, I can’t name anything else my husband would eat voluntarily.

Trying to undo six months of peaceful man-space take-over in a week’s time is a daunting task. I went to the grocery store yesterday with list in hand and I still found myself standing in the middle of aisle seven asking my one-year old why I came down that aisle. He just proudly let out a squeal which, as cute as it was, was less than helpful. Needless to say, I’m going back to the store today.

Last night, after a long day of reorganizing and cleaning, I had a full-blown temper tantrum to rival even the brattiest four-year old. My feet were stomping, there was grunting, tears, and I may have even hit a household appliance with a cookbook. After a few deep breaths, I realized that I needed a new game plan because clearly my organization goals were unrealistic and my to-do list was a joke.

New plan: think like a man. Not once has my husband walked into our house and marveled at the freshly mopped floors or run a white glove over the top of tall furniture to check for dust. So, although I’d like to mop, dust, refinish a bookshelf, and triangle fold the toilet paper, time is not on my side and I need to get realistic.

I’m certain my husband would notice that his side of the bed has become the staging area for our closet reorganization. Did you notice I said our and not my closet? Let’s call that progress.  So, obviously the clothes need to return to the closet—on their designated side, of course.

What, dear? You say you don’t want to eat salad twice a day or have hummus and veggies for dinner three times a week? Noted. Groceries are of the utmost importance. With no one to cook for over the last six months, I just stopped cooking. Of course, I fed my son nothing but the best, but after chopping three different dinner entrees into bite-sized pieces to please a picky kid, I don’t have the time or energy to whip up something fancy for myself. In the battle of tired versus hungry, tired wins every time and I grab something quick and convenient. While my husband knows better than to expect a four-course meal every night, it’s only fair to have foods on hand that he enjoys. So, Operation Stock the Fridge is now in motion.

I’m trying—really trying—to remind myself that the house doesn’t have to be perfect. It was in tiptop shape when my husband returned from his last deployment only to be instantly returned to its lived-in status when my husband came through the door and dropped his pack on the floor of the kitchen where it sat for almost a week until I could no longer ignore it. My husband, and I’m assuming most husbands returning from deployments, don’t care if home looks like something from a Pottery Barn catalog or a Better Homes and Gardens feature. All they care about is that they’re home. They want to sleep in their own beds and eat the foods they’ve been craving for months.

We may want everything to be picture perfect for their return, but honestly, all they need to see is that the house is still half theirs. They want space for their man stuff in the bathroom, and their wardrobe, although defenseless against our obviously larger collection of outfits and shoes, deserves room in the closet.

So, one more time for emphasis, it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be home. On that note, I’ll begin my day of treaty negotiations in the closet, hair product corralling in the bathroom, and round two at the grocery store.

Kristi

Around 6:30 a.m. on the eve of my husband’s homecoming; I woke up refreshed from my five whole hours of sleep. I spoil myself. On the agenda: make a “Welcome Home” sign, shave my legs, pick out a homecoming outfit, carry out my usual mommy duties, and clean the house so unbelievably well that the President and the Queen of England could show up at the same time unannounced and I wouldn’t have one speck of dust to be embarrassed about.

With coffee in hand, at 6:41 a.m., I realized that I had no poster board, which presented a problem with the sign-making situation.  Deep breath. A quick run to the store could solve that problem, but first, I decided to raid the medicine cabinet for some sort of ointment for this itchy spot on my arm that had been there for two days. I was 99 percent sure it was just a stress pimple, and I’m just thankful that it bypassed my face and took up residence on my arm. Pimples can be itchy, right? Totally normal!

…Right?

My son woke up and had breakfast, and we made a poster board run and managed to get home by 10:00 a.m. I finally convinced my son that he really did want to take a nap, and I took a second to text a picture of my increasingly gross arm to my dad who has no medical training, but magically always has a diagnosis. I half expected a sarcastic response about sucking it up; instead I got a message convincing me to see a doctor. Ever experienced panic-induced laughter? Sorry, but unless my arm was literally going to fall off, I didn’t have time to see a doctor. I could pencil in an appointment for next Wednesday. How’s that?

I really tried, but I couldn’t ignore my dad’s advice. The itching was persistent and the voice in my head kept steering me towards the worst-case scenarios. After a few Internet searches and one desperate call to a dear friend down the street for last minute childcare, I headed to the urgent care center.

Pimple? No. Spider bite? Yes.

After a few hours bouncing between the urgent care center and the pharmacy, I was back on track with my to-do list. The only problem was that it was already 4:30 p.m. What happened to my relaxing last day of deployment? I should have been getting a pedicure, washing my hair like I was around this time for the last homecoming. Instead, I was dealing with a fussy 1-year old, a messy house, a disgusting arm, and time that wouldn’t pause long enough to give me a break.

I couldn’t help but be jealous of myself at this time during the last homecoming. I hated that I had enough time back then to get completely wrapped up in facials, bubble baths, pillow fluffing, picking the perfect outfit, selecting mood music, and the emotions of the whole situation.

What a difference one baby makes! This time around, it still hadn’t even hit me that I would see my husband in less than 24 hours. Instead, I felt like I was rounding the last curve of a marathon without the endurance to sprint for the finish…just trying not to throw up, trip, and fall over the finish line. I had to keep it together and make sure my husband knew just how much we missed him, but time was running out.

When my adrenaline started giving out for the night, the “Welcome Home” poster was still blank, toys were everywhere, and I hadn’t even showered. My son was sound asleep, my arm was still attached, and we’d made it to the last 15 hours of deployment. I’d call that a victory. Trying to focus on the big picture, I did what I could to set myself up for success on homecoming day, stumbled to bed, and hoped that I had the energy to wake up when my alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. the next morning.

I did. Homecoming day began just like any other crazy day. My son and I magically arrived on time, properly groomed and fully dressed (minus the shoes that my son pulled off 20 minutes before daddy’s arrival).

When we locked our eyes on daddy and all was forgotten—minus that persistent itching on my arm. The exhaustion and chaos from 24 hours ago seemed to be just a bad dream.

The moment we had our first family hug in six months made me realize that one thing hadn’t changed from the first, kid-free, homecoming to the second kid-centered homecoming. Even without dedicating 24 hours to mutating into a pinup girl, I managed to look and smell presentable. Amazingly, my son and I made it to this precious moment a little stronger and a little more patient (by 1-year old standards, anyway). In the heat of battle I made sacrifices, allowed petty details to consume me, and endured the hits that just kept coming, but the drama of separation couldn’t hold a candle to what really mattered…family.

By 7:45 that evening, both of my boys were sound asleep. Though I’m used to calling it a night closer to midnight, I found myself fighting a losing battle with my eyelids. The adrenaline that’s kept me going for months recognized that it was no longer needed. It was shutting down, and I was finally allowed to just breathe a deep sigh of relief and rest. We were complete again, the house was still standing, we had no permanent scarring, and we were all thankful to be here, in this moment, together!