I have no f*cking clue what to do, you guys.
|Whatever, your husband is literally Jay Z.|
She was hella excited.
|Literally wiener-dog-on-the-beach excited.|
Anyway, she left for Corpus at oh-dark-thirty this morning, and she's texted that they arrived safely. Yay.
Guess what? The last time I was neither a wife nor a mother was 1990.
Twenty-seven goddamn years if you're counting. Considerably more than half my lifetime ago.
Drummer Boy is going to spend Saturday night and Sunday with me. But until then, I'm on my own. With a Siamese kitten and a guinea pig. That's all.
I feel as if I should be totally better equipped to be single and independent for a couple of days.
Yet...kind of I'm not.
In 1987, I lived at home, attended university, and had not yet met my future spouse.
My parents went out of town for a few days and left me home alone. You know, because I was all mature and grown-up and whatnot.
You guys, I freaked out.
|Exclusive content, you guys.|
The point is, a few brief months later I started going with my future spouse, and for the next 25 years or so, I was never alone.
And then...my marriage ended, and PDaughter and I moved into our little apartment. And I was never alone.
And now she's on a band trip. In Corpus Christi. Four hundred miles away.
I know she's having an amazing time.
I'm happy for her.
|Commodores reference for the win, absolutely.|
Despite all evidence to the contrary.
I am trying.
It's hard. Surprisingly hard.
I have new admiration for parents who go through this as a matter of routine. Really.
I'm just going to be a mess until PDaughter comes home to me.
She's going to have a great time in Corpus Christi.
I'm going to be a wreck until she gets home safely.
That's just me.