The job is not there, the one he was going away to do. My husband is staying here, at least for now.
He may travel north, to help another friend, soon - and I hope that he will, that he does, I hope this for him.
And I feel a little, tiny bit guilty. Because truth be told, I was silently screaming to the heavens:
"DO NOT LET HIM GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
I was afraid. Afraid of being the ONE, single parenting, and afraid on a superstitious level that something BAD might happen. That he might not come back.
I was afraid of a lifetime of single parenting. And I was afraid of losing him. And I was just plain afraid of the inconvenience and stress and all of that, of driving Finn to and from preschool and working and hiring babysitters and and and blah blah blah...
the hamster-circle of worry.
And now I don't have to. He's staying here, with us.
For a little while, anyway. Yeah, maybe he'll go up soon, to help Bret on the big paint job. And I'll be okay with it then. Really, I will. I promise. I won't scream silent prayers for divine interference, for adjustments in the cosmos that allow him to stay here. With us.
My husband. My bipolar bear.
He sits outside in the sun right now, talking to his friend. Sounding remarkably mature, calm, spiritually fit, loving.
Will he sound like that when he comes inside? I doubt it. Maybe he'll surprise me. But I seem to get the wounded, snarling side more often. I don't know why.
Have you ever felt that? Have you ever been that?
What side of me do I give him, I wonder...