Sunday, March 4, 2007


Today is one of those days. My husband warned me that they would come - for every day that I have where I believe that I'm on track, and can finish this thing, he told me there would be a day where it all seems hopeless, and I'm miserable, and I'll just want to give up.

Today is one of those days.

I felt it coming on last night. Even though I felt pretty good about where I was with everything, I went to bed missing Hubby terribly. It's a dull ache pretty much every day, but I can usually keep it at bay. We'd gotten the whole thesis-writing thing down to a system before Christmas, in terms of helping one another out with cooking, laundry, formatting figures, editing grammar, and those sorts of things. We work really well together, and most importantly, we work really well together while being in each other's personal space.

Here, I have Mom to help with the laundry and the cooking, and she does the grocery shopping. I have my own space, a huge room that's over half the size of our old apartment, and I don't have to work around anyone else.

I didn't realize how much I'd miss having Hubby around. Not to help with the laundry, or correct my grammar, but to just be. I knew he was the one for me when I discovered several years ago that not only could we talk for hours and hours, but that we could spend time together in companionable silence. Just looking over to see the back of his head, with its mop of brown curls, is usually enough to bring me out of the deepest funk.

I feel horribly guilty about griping, too, which doesn't help things. So many couples I know have been separated, for longer time periods and more drastic reasons. My brother and his fiancee are soon to be living in the same city for the first time in four years; one of my best friends is home with three children under the age of five, because her husband is training for the military to help give his family a better future. Neither of those couples chose the separation, whereas I did, in order to be productive. We'll be reunited after 9 weeks; my friend and her babies will see their dad after 12 weeks, and my brother has seen his fiancee on average only once every 12 weeks for thepast four years. I have no right to complain.

We're still talking on the phone twice a day, and with free long distance we can talk for an hour and not worry about the cost. It's a learning experience, too; I'm discovering that I miss his little habits, and that I miss contributing half to household upkeep. Because neither of us has a webcam, all we have is the phone; I'm learning how to look back on my day and bring him up to speed without complaining too much. I'm finding that I want to avoid complaining entirely, because the relatively little time we have should be positive.

(I gave up two things for Lent - I gave up my husband out of necessity, and I am trying my hardest to give up "driving the BMW" - bitching, moaning, and whining).

Most days I can see the light at the end of this tunnel, and the thought of being finished lights a warm little fire in my heart (a tiny fire so warm and bright that it almost hurts). I am desperately looking forward to just sitting down for one evening, without this blade hanging over my head by a thread.

Sitting in my favourite chair, with a big mug of tea on my endtable and a half-finished sock on my needles, and my husband next to me, reading recipes off the internets and planning our first real Sunday dinner together since Christmas.


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