Single workdays, married weekends: The Workweek Widow

I wrote this essay two years ago, when Husband traveled constantly and I stayed at home 36 hours a day with a toddler and preschooler. This week I am the one leaving for BlogHer10 (thank you Husband!)

Workweek Widowhood means single-parenting during the workweek, while your spouse travels, works double-digit hours, or plays any manner of fantasy-athletics. My husband travels around the country designing web interfaces. He gets on a plane in the pre-dawn hours technically considered “Monday morning” and returns only to jolt me awake, just as I’ve nodded off late Thursday night. It’s kind of like divorce minus the perks-- no alimony, no co-custody, and no dating.

Even dating my husband when he returns home for the weekend becomes impossible. I envision a warm reunion, but the moment he returns I hand off the toddler-baton, pitch him the remote, and brief him on “nuggets for that older one” while searching for my keys. He’s barely rolled his suitcase to a complete stop, and my feet start cartoon-air-peddling, preparing to blast a mommy-shaped hole in the double-doors of our 1964 ranch. Husband understands my desperate quest for girlfriends and a cocktail. I almost wrote “cockatiel” because that is what happens to a brain after spending an inordinate amount of time with only your children—your memory files birdies above Bacardi.

The first moments of Friday morning feel almost like vacation, despite the pre-five am toddler wake up call: “MamamamamaWhereAREyou? DaddydaddyDaddysWORKIN. All done ALL DONE SLEEPIES.” Husband knows Friday mornings fall under his jurisdiction, but he remains prone. Toddler chants, whines, and eventually begins his own version of a bugle call. My muscles tighten, fighting the automatic-toddler-retrieval response.

“Maybe he’ll fall back asleep.” Husband grunts. I warn of Toddler waking Mr. Preschool, and Husband stumbles to find some pants. I try to relax myself back to sleep. A familiar tension beneath my eyelids lets me know that WorkWeekend Widow Warrior is waking up. Her presence threatens most every weekend.

It’s unavoidable.

We set ourselves up for failure with lofty goals of giving Mommy a break, family time, intimacy, and to-do lists. We try to squeeze into two or three days, what most families plan for in a week. Some weekends the smiles are more forthcoming, and a few things get accomplished. Quality family time doesn’t necessarily mean fun. In fact, quality time may involve games entitled “laundry” and “litter box.” Other weekends Mommy hermits in her room and eats bowl after bowl of Lucky Charms--a different kind of intimacy altogether.

I smell coffee that was not prepared by me, and for a moment I feel contented. The weekend lies before us, ripe with potential for us time (“Who are you again?”), me time (sleep with or without eyes closed), family time (dinner out, strong drinks), chores time (Husband), errands time (Me, alone), and bathing (the kids, possibly me).

I half-sleep for 45 minutes, and emerge anticipating the cuteness of my now intact family. I consider hugs, but Husband returns to bed before I can make contact. He is exhausted.

I note the sudden child obesity that has descended on my children, in the form of 14-hour diapers (not nearly as flattering as 18-hour bras). Kitchen is seasoned with Veggie Booty. I breathe. I sigh. I stomp. I notice the small, but ever-efficient Workweekend Widow Warrior hovering over my right shoulder. Her cape dons the letter W, which also looks like M for “martyr” as it flows in the breeze.

Before I even warm a mug of burnt coffee, children are fed and freshened, and Husband is snoring. Workweekend Widow Warrior circles frantically around my head, sneering at Husband and pretending to gag herself. I try to reason with her. I want to let Husband sleep. He let me sleep. He is tired from 15-hour days of travel. I am tired from 15-hour days of here. Not that I keep score.

The kids Lego, as I mull my options. We need groceries despite the shopping I did twice during the week, but I cannot face the store. I find myself in the first of many simple, yet paralyzing weekend decisions. The switch from quasi single-Mom to Married Mom leaves me flummoxed.

Scenario 1: Husband goes to the store. If Husband goes grocery shopping, he will take three hours, and I will be alone with the kids.

Scenario 2: Husband goes to the store with the kids. If Husband brings the kids, he will return with exactly three light bulbs, two clamshell boxes of donut holes, and a pint of orange juice--completely fatigued and useless for the remainder of the day.

Scenario 3: I do the shopping alone. If I go alone, I fear it will count as “me time” and I don’t want grocery store time on that side of the tally sheet. Not that I keep score.

Scenario 4: I decide to go, with the kids, while Husband sleeps. Can you see the Martyr cape flying behind the grocery cart?

One hour later, I wake up Husband to HELP ME WITH THE GROCERIES, DAMMIT PLEASE. I search for the showered and dressed Husband awaiting our arrival. He’ll be ready to retrieve children and groceries in one hand, and present me coffee in the other. Perhaps he’ll offer me a warm towel misted with an essential oil or two. Instead, a groggy man-heap greets us at the door. He needs more coffee.

He needs a shower. He needs a cigarette. He needs to crap. He needs. I need. The boys need. The clock says 8:00 am. I don’t think Husband can see Workweekend Widow Warrior’s obscene gestures, but he takes over. I crumble onto his still-warm spot on the bed, snuggling her martyr-cape.

A half-hour nap improves my mood. Not even the unpacked bags of groceries send me into my usual spiral. I hear all three males playing in the basement, and I enjoy the methodical organizing and stowing of groceries. With each item I place, I am righting one small thing in our chaotic life--so temporary, but also so satisfying.

I hit the shower for a fifteen minutes--ample time for a full detailing. The hot water relaxes me, and I’m tired. Again. I want my family. I want my girlfriends. I want caffeine. I want alcohol. I want privacy. I want company. I want intimacy. I want to be left the hell alone. I want pancakes. I want to know what I want. The hot water feels so good on my hair, but I resent the fact that I will now have to spend ten minutes drying it--ten precious childfree minutes that surely I could use more productively.

The Sunday Night Blues are just around the corner.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” Mr. Preschool will ask.

“No” Husband will answer, hugging him extra tightly. “Go to sleep, count four wakeups, and I’ll be home.”

Husband and I will go to sleep together. We will start to re-connect. Feeling claustrophobic, Workweekend Widow Warrior will take her score-keeping game elsewhere for a few days. At three am Husband will shower. At four I’ll hear his rolling suitcase. At five I’ll hear Toddler stirring, and fantasize about an extra pair of hands, a few minutes more sleep, and a cockatiel.