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June 24, 2007

By By Tiffany Horvath

Every single thing I do lately seems to have an underlying theme: he'll be home in less than a monthŠa weekŠand now mere days.

Every time I do a weekly chore, I silently add the thought that the next time I do the task, he will be home.

I filled the car up with gas, and realized that the next time I would need a fill up, he would be home. Unless the cost of oil rises again, in which case we will be getting a second mortgage on the house and just sending the cash directly to the gas station.

I washed every single item of dirty clothing in the house in a marathon laundry session last week, and smiled as I folded the last load because I knew the next time I did laundry, he would be home.

Or, better yet, he would be the one doing the laundry.

I went to the grocery store and for the first time in eight long months got to consider cooking food that he likes. I bought food to prepare for adults, and for the first time in months, I didn't purchase a single box of frozen corn dogs, chicken nuggets or a jar of peanut butter and jelly.

I washed the sheets for our bed, but cannot bear to put them on the bed yet because I worry they might lose that Downy-fresh scent. So, I am sleeping in a tangle of older sheets just tossed on the bed while the freshly laundered ones await him in a corner of our bedroom.

We have double sinks in our bathroom, with the left one being his and the right one mine. Since he's been gone, my products and accessories have gradually taken over both sinks, much to be surprise. I truly do not recall how my stuff managed crawl from my side to his, but needless to say I spent an afternoon carefully cleaning the bathroom and relocating all my items to their proper space on my side.

My stepdaughter is all nerves and excitement about seeing her father. She has an entire new summer wardrobe, because absolutely nothing fits her from last summer. She is wearing outfits from the juniors department now, and won't shop in the children's section anymore. Her father is going to be amazed at the beautiful, poised young woman she has become in just eight months.Our little boy knows his daddy is coming home, although he doesn't seem to have a real grasp as to what this means. He knows his daddy's voice and talks to him over the phone, but this three year olds memories of his father are limited to mostly pictures right now: photos of his daddy playing outside with him, pictures of the two of them at the state fair, a shot taken when he'd fallen asleep in his father's loving arms.

And the baby will have no clue who this tall man is. She is going through a severe attachment stage right, whereby anytime she leaves me she weeps hysterically until we are reunited or until someone offers her Goldfish crackers. She's a big fan of Goldfish.

And then there's me. I am still aware of the few pounds of baby weight I have yet to lose, and the fact that I have changed my hairstyle since he's left. I've also changed my hair color a few times, mainly because some of my strands have suddenly decided to become a lovely shade of gray in the past few months and I am not happy about that decision and keep trying to reverse it.

I look in the mirror, and swear I see more wrinkles around my eyes and think the lines in my forehead look a little more prominent and wonder if he will notice.

Then I just have to laugh at myself.

Because my husband is coming for two whole weeks in a few days, and nothing else really seems to matter.