When I say things like, oh 11 days isn’t very long, in my head, it makes sense.

Because 11 days isn’t very long.  It’s not even two weeks.

I’ve been constipated and on crash diets that have lasted longer than that.

But when I pulled up to the departures terminal, and he got out of the car and opened the back gate to grab his bag, it felt like forever.

I met him on the sidewalk in tears and hugged him so tight, I thought if maybe I could just latch on to him hard enough, he wouldn’t leave me.  Much like the way Wyatt grabs my legs when I try to go to the bathroom and I end up peeing standing up in the shower with a kid on my thigh.

It didn’t work, Andy had to leave.  Because that is what adults do, they leave their families to go on work trips to Korea.

I’ve done it a zillion times, getting out of the car at the departures terminal, kissing everyone goodbye in tears, and dragging my things inside to join the mass of transient strangers, but I’d never been on the other side.

The side that has to drive back home with an empty seat beside them, crying and singing The Cure’s Just Like Heaven on repeat before stopping at the last Taco Bell before your garage and eating your cheesey gordita crunch feelings until the only feeling you have left is IBS.

But at least it feels the void.

It was lonely, not only because he was gone, but because he was unreachable, in the air until long after I would be going to bed.  I couldn’t call him to tell him there’s a woodchuck living under our porch step, or that Gigi named him Kitty and he has the same facial hair as Chaz Bono.

I couldn’t email him to tell him I went through the automatic car wash all by myself without the window hoser guy yelling at me for being unable to align my wheels on the track correctly before me jumping out of the moving vehicle and telling him to just fucking do it himself.

I mean, I could email him I guess…but he wouldn’t respond.

Home is an endless abyss without anyone over the age of 5 to talk to, I think there is a ghost following me around carrying a boom box blaring The Weepies, and I have a cold.

I blame Andy for all of that, but mostly the cold.

He didn’t want to be sick overseas, so I acted as a germ buffer between him and all our snotty children.  It was my mouth they sneezed in, my jeans they wiped snot on, and my fingers that picked the gooey junk from their eyelashes each morning as he ran to the sink like a girl to wash his hands.

I don’t think my nose holes will ever work again.

Jude and Wyatt seem to be taking things okay, I’ve explained to them how many sleeps until daddy comes home, and then they run upstairs to play XBox and act annoyed when I walk into their room to put crap away.

The little one, however, is a disaster.

Talks with Gigi have broken down.  She is what I’d imagine dealing with Muamma Gaddafi is like.

She wants stuff.  I try to rationalize with her.  She poops on my floor.

I’ve decided to stop taking her out in public until some sort of treaty can be reached.

I have a feeling it will involve Benadryl, a pack of fruit snacks, and those clicker things you use at dog obedience classes.

I went to bed last night upset I had gone an entire day without speaking to Andy, and annoyed that I couldn’t will myself to stay awake longer to watch his airplane move across the screen of the flight tracker website.

I had a brief scare earlier in the day when I realized an hour had gone by and his plane hadn’t moved, so I called my dad crying that Andy had, perhaps, gone down somewhere over Ontario, and to call the US Embassy, but it turns out my internet connection had been lost, so I frantically restarted the modem, refreshed the page, and his plane started moving happily over whatever ocean Jesus plopped down between the big land blogs I can’t remember the names of.

My phone finally rang this morning, and fumbled for it half asleep, jolting awake to see it was my love, at last.

Andy!  Oh my God I miss you so much, I am so glad you made it safe!

I miss you too, listen, super quick because this call is going to cost us a fortune, can you google what the buttons mean on a Korean toilet?  The wifi isn’t working in my room and I really have poop.

Oh um, yeah, okay.

Apparently the separation is harder on some people more than others.

You’re welcome, Andy.

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