Perception colored by husband's absence

July 22, 2007

Homefront: Tiffany Horvath

Did you ever have one of those weeks where it seems like everything that could go wrong does? One of those weeks where if you were to write your own horoscope on a scale of one to 10, you would give yourself a negative number?

Yeah, it's been one of those weeks in my household.

Of course, sending my husband back to Iraq after the fastest two weeks of our lives didn't help. That's not always the best way to start off a week.

I think I need to buy stock in Kleenex.

Our son started off Monday morning by waking up almost two hours earlier than usual. He was alert and happy and singing and bright as a daisy.

Me, so much.

I did my best to convince him it was still &#8220night-night” time, as I had only gotten to sleep myself within the past three hours, having just dropped aforementioned husband off at the airport late the previous evening.

So my little boy told me I could go back to sleep and daddy would watch &#8220Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang” with him, and he walked into our bedroom.

Suffice it to say, daddy wasn't there, but I am positive that, deep down, daddy sincerely missed watching &#8220Chitty-Bang” for the 1 millionth time.

The baby girl slept in quite late that morning and has continued to do so every morning this week. She, who used to bounce out of her crib at 7:30 a.m., now forces me to wake her up at 9:30 a.m..

Need I mention she no longer takes a nap at 11 a.m.?

All I can think of is there has got to be some deeply hidden mommy secret in some elusive files somewhere that shows one how to coordinate the sleep patterns of one's children.

When I was at church helping to clean out a barely used room on Tuesday, my husband called. Our son didn't get a chance to talk to him, but he realized daddy was on the phone as soon as I'd hung up.

He sat in a corner on a pew in my lap and just wept copiously for his daddy, repeating over and over, &#8220I want to talk to daddy! I want to talk to daddy!” in a miserable falsetto. When I looked up, the pastor of our church and two other adults were all trying to comfort this little boy and they all had tears in their eyes as they listened to his litany.

I teared up for a second, and then my little angel boy, tears glistening in his big, cornflower blue eyes, patted my cheek and told me that he would feel better at McDonald's.

That's when I realized I'd been had.

Our son takes swimming lessons in the mornings four days a week at the Palmer Pool, and because of his early hours and his sister's late hours, I've gotten into the habit of getting a daily quad-shot, extra large latte from a local espresso stand each morning.

On Wednesday, I was contentedly sipping my latte watching my son splash and belly flop with his class when, in an attempt to stop my daughter from stealing someone else's latte, my 20-ounce coffee ended up all over a lady sitting in front of me.

It was peppermint flavored, so at least she smelled pretty good.

Mortified and silently and verbally begging forgiveness from the woman, I immediately ran to the bathroom to grab some paper towels to soak up the latte explosion. Only as I was running back did I realize in my embarrassment I'd completely forgotten my daughter in the bleachers.

Fortunately, complete strangers were feeding her goldfish crackers and grapes when I rushed back, so she never even missed me, but I'm pretty sure I lost my nomination for &#8220Mother of the Year” with that act.

The lady covered in what used to be my latte was incredibly nice and forgiving about the situation.

In retrospect, if I was going to spill a $5 coffee on anyone, I couldn't have picked a nicer person. She even insisted on cleaning it up. I think that might have been because she was nervous about me having damp rags that close to her person again.

Later on that afternoon, I checked my cell phone and realized I had missed my husband's calls for the last two days because I hadn't charged it.

I donated my old sectional couch to charity this week in anticipation of a new one, but the new one can't be delivered until next weekend. So, my living room ensemble currently consists of a recliner, a large rug and two ticked-off cats.

My son couldn't understand why people were taking his couch away and had a breakdown in front of the people from the charity. That breakdown continued for almost three days.

I truly wondered when he was in the middle of what had to be his thousandth tantrum of the week if I could just sit down scream with him.

Then I realized that would probably scare the nice cashier at Fred Meyers.

There were some good aspects of the week, now that I reflect on it. It just seems so much was darkly colored by my husband's departure that I forgot about the enjoyable portions.

So, on the good side, I got to touch base with someone who graduated from the same high school as myself, albeit two years earlier, through a coincidental phone call. We talked and laughed for quite some time.

I agreed, hesitantly at first but now with growing excitement, to direct my first play with Valley Performing Arts this fall, &#8220The Hound of the Baskervilles.” It's a Sherlock Holmes mystery, so now I'm trying to feign an English accent to keep in character with the script for the upcoming auditions. I'm getting some really odd looks from people, especially those who know me.

And I met a really nice lady at the local pool who looks great in a 20-ounce peppermint latte.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, is deployed to Iraq. She writes every Sunday abut life at home for the wife of a deployed soldier.