Traveling Husband

As I think of my new topic I wonder if I’m beginning to get a little too gloomy. Maybe it’s cabin fever, and when the weather warms and days grow noticeably longer, my thoughts and writing will feel a bit lighter. But, since it’s the end of February, here I am. I have been thinking about my last post and how crazy it sounds in many ways. Then I thought about the fact that my husband, Jim, travels a lot for work. He’s been gone many weeks in a row, with the odd week here thrown in. He’s “back” on weekends, but he’s been leaving on Sundays and returning late Friday night or early on Saturday mornings and is jet-lagged for the time he’s here, so it’s been a long haul. When he returns I’m torn between realizing he’s exhausted and wanting to let him rest, and wanting him to come home, hit the ground running and share the load of work at home.  

I think the overwhelming responsibility I feel at times is because there is no one here to balance me. I like having Jim around. I like the balance we have. I like the fact that if the child snuggling on my lap is ready for some rough and tumble play, he will jump up and pounce on his father. I like the fact that Jim talks about and does different things with the kids. I think it’s such an important influence, and wish that I could somehow fill that role too when he’s gone. However, instead of being able to fill his role, I have less time and patience even to fill my role.  

I often liken my situation to that of single moms, but I know that’s not really true or fair, except in the most superficial of ways. I know what it’s like to be the only adult eating dinner with two kids who only like bland food. By the end of a long trip, I feel like I will scream if I look at one more broiled chicken breast or plate of scrambled eggs. I miss having another adult around to share the kids with. They are so funny and frustrating, and I get sad not being able to exchange a glance with another adult. However, I did have a funny experience this morning when Hugo, who is 3, was throwing a tantrum because I wouldn’t let him rub his new toothbrush on the floor, and Jasper, my 6-year old, shot me a funny look because he thought it was hilarious. Usually I don’t get to share or have anyone help diffuse those moments and that was a lovely moment. I can relate to the single mom in being the only person to make each day happen—the only one to take out the trash and pack the lunches and make and clean up every meal. I also am the only one to deal with situations when mini disasters strike, such as dead car batteries, ice storms, a broken furnace or horrible viruses ripping through the house. But, I am not a single mom. I have a husband who loves me, who always comes home, and who brings home a pay check. 

I have to add, we made this choice together. Jim’s company is based in California, so our choices are: live here and deal with his travel, or move to the west coast. We lived in California a long time and I love it, but I wouldn’t trade our life here to go back, so there you go. At this point, most of his trips are okay. I’m very used to them and if he’s only gone 2 or 3 days we barely notice. I try to take care of myself. I set up the coffee for morning the night before, I rent movies only I want to see, I might be a stack of magazines to read at night. But, when he has several long trips I do burn out, because him being gone becomes the new “normal.” I get used to doing it all myself, slogging way.  I am very fortunate. I have a great group of supportive girlfriends, and last night for example, after the kids went to bed I got a sitter and went and hung out with some of them. I got to actually have uninterrupted adult conversation mid-week. Who cares if I was so tired I could barely talk and had to be home at 10pm to make sure my babysitter could go to bed at a reasonable time to get up for school this morning.  

I do feel like I’m complaining and don’t want to because I know I am lucky to have the life I have. Tomorrow marks the last day of a 6-day trip after a series of 5 and 6-day trips. We will get through the day and make the best of it (forecasted ice storm and school maybe getting canceled included), but I’m ready for my husband to come home.

Too Much Responsibility

I think I could get rid of a lot of my anxiety if I just had the answer to one simple question: Do people end up the way they are more because of nature or more because of nurture? I would so love to hear, with certainty, that the answer is nature. I just love coming across studies and stories of twins separated at birth who meet as adults and find their lives are uncannily similar. For example, both twins love to play the cello and garden, they are both huge football fans, and both have four kids. Because, if I knew for certain that nature plays the biggest role, I could lean back, exhale, and stop worrying so much about what I am doing for my children. 

You see, I am beginning to suspect that I feel that the quality and substance of my children’s futures resides entirely on me. I think I must expose them to everything because they will never find their interests or talents if I don’t. I must model and talk about behaviors or they will never learn to socialize well. I must act impassioned about every imaginable topic or they may never discover that they love that thing. I become paralyzed with fear when they have a negative experience doing something because I’m afraid they will be turned off forever. I feel I must instill an appreciation for art, athletics, culture, learning, nature, books, health, and everything else because they will never develop one on their own. 

I know this is totally neurotic. I can just hear the voices of reason saying that I should have more faith in my kids to find their own way. I can hear the voices telling me that as long as I do expose them to things and love and support and encourage them, then that’s all they need.  But try as I might I cannot shake this….feeling….it’s not exactly a belief, because I believe that it’s a crazy way to think, but I still feel it deep in my bones. I know that if one of my kids really does go off track and say, runs with a bad crowd, fails out of school, has no ambition, etc that I will feel totally and utterly responsible and that had I done something differently I could have prevented it. I try to be the voice of reason for myself. I tell myself, some kids are raised with everything and grow up to do nothing and be miserable. Some kids are given nothing and grow up to do extraordinary things and be extraordinary people. Some kids end up completely different from every other member of their family.  

I also know that if kids were really just born as blank slates and totally programmable, then my kids would enjoy spicy food with vegetables, meat and starch all mixed together. They would love to dance, would be excited to learn to ski and be quite social. I know that when my 6-year old tells me he doesn’t want to take the training wheels off because he finds bicycles “very unstable,” and then refuses to ride one altogether if he has to wear a helmet, it has nothing to do with me. I know it wouldn’t really be different if he had a different color bike or if we had the yard covered in blacktop.  

It helps having a second kid. Our youngest son is so different from the oldest in so many ways that I have been forced to realize that, it isn’t just me!  Both boys have interests that neither their father nor I share at all, which should also be a helpful sign that they are really their own people and will find their own way.  So why can’t I let got of my over-the-top sense of responsibility for every aspect of who they become? I acknowledge that I do have hopes and expectations that I wish I didn’t. I can’t shake my belief that athletic boys are going to have an easier time in life, and I worry that I gave my boys inferior genes in that area since I come from a relatively non-athletic family. I worry that there are an excessive number of geeky male genes in my family, and that I’ve passed those on. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I know I feel that way.  

I ask myself, what do I really want for my kids? Does it really matter to me if they love mystery novels or love to ski or play oboe? Does it matter to me if they are the most popular kid at school or the most handsome? Does it matter to me if they grow up to be artists or scientists or teachers or lawyers? It doesn’t.  

I make a list. I hope that my kids have good priorities and values. I hope they’re kind. I hope they work hard at things. I hope they can make a living and have hobbies. I hope they have healthy relationships. I hope they are responsible and have the ability to solve problems. I hope they are happy, in the sense that they are able to appreciate the good things in their lives and know how to stride in a healthy way for the things they want. I hope they are healthy. I hope they are contributing members of society.  Whew. I think that’s really it, or at least most of it anyway. I’m sure I’ll think of more later. That list may be a tall order, but I think those are things I really can help my kids with. What a relief. Maybe I’ll try to relax a little and not lose sleep over whether or not they learn to ice skate in the next year or so.