My husband's gone...

... and I was alone with the kids overnight for the first time ever. I know, boohoo, right. He's only been gone for three nights but my anxiety went through the roof. (I'm not afraid of boogie-men in the night, I just have a slightly dysfunctional panic button.)

Haul in 40lb-put-the-chiropractor-on-stipend-bags of pellets to keep the stove running? No choice there. Take the garbage and recycling out when the windchill is -20? Er, it doesn't smell that bad, it can wait another week. Scoop out the cat litter? The cats are standing outside the door with their little legs crossed... guess I can't skip that one, but I won't like it, not one little bit. Put gas in the car? Do I have to? It's stinky and so... so unfeminine.

You did not just say that! Oh, yea, I did. And I won't apologize...

Truth is, I'm a traditionalist at heart.

And I blame my mother.

Growing up, my mother told me I needed to find a man who spoiled me and treated me like a princess. She also told me respect was the most important part of a relationship. So what did I do? Go out and date the most controlling and disrespectful men (boys) I could find. One pushed me down the side of the bed and threw clothes on top of me, just for fun (which might explain the panic button issue). One just wanted me around to wash dishes while he entertained his ex. One told me my dreams were just that. Another allowed me to go on loving him (and criticized me for it) while he loved another. You might say I wasn't taking out the garbage back then either.

And then my prince came along. If being told you're beautiful and that your dreams are important enough to pursue no matter what is being spoiled, then I was... rottenly. If hauling bags of trash and (wo)man-handling feline excrement was also taken off my to-do list, as well as removing rodent remains from the carpet or wiping up dog vomit, I wasn't going to argue. Can you really blame me?

I do the mommy-stuff around here. I won't up the gross-factor of this post any further by listing them, but we all know the disgusting bodily fluid messes in which we mothers dabble. It's not that my husband won't do them, he'd just rather not. Well, call me a princess, but I'd rather not pump gas, inflate tires (I have an irrational fear of explosion), empty garbage cans, or scoop poop.

He's been gone a few days and I would say I enjoyed having the expanse of our bed to myself but I spent the night being kicked in the back by Tator who missed his Daddy and needed to sleep next to me. I would say I didn't mind snoring through the arrival of 2009 (while insane people stood outside in zero degrees to watch a ball drop - who does that?), but today felt no different than any other day because I hadn't shared the moment. I would say I can handle everything because I'm a Woo-oo-oo-man, but I'd be lying. I was a single mom for three days and my respect for real single moms, while already high, has sky-rocketed.

I don't intend this to sound as if I only need him around to help me get through life. I also need him walking through the door all tall and handsome, cheeks red from his cold walk home from work; I need him animated when he talks to the kids at the dinner table; I need how my head fits perfectly in the indent of his shoulder. I need how he listens. I need our partnership.

Thank goodness he's back tomorrow - the trash does smell rather bad.

1991 called

I think I have mentioned before that I am addicted to planners. Not a bad addiction when you consider the options. But I fear I am woefully out of date (pun intended).

I watched the movie 27 Dresses where the main character Jane, played by Katherine Heigl, is a perpetual bridesmaid and wedding planner for her friends. She scribbles all her bridesmaidenly tasks in a dayplanner, which, when left in a cab is the cause of much distress and missed appointments. I relate... I would sit on my rump, head cocked sideways staring at the floor not having a clue what to do next if I mislaid my planner. My daughter has a book about some creature who makes a list of what he has to do that day but when it blows away in a wind gust he is helpless. When his friend suggests they look for the list he refuses because that wasn't on his list of things to do. I'm not quite that bad but if I accomplish something that wasn't on my to-do list I will write it down just so I can experience the pleasure of checking it off - a far more healthy obessesive trait, I believe.

Anyway, back to the movie... when the love interest in the movie finds Jane's planner, making fun of her, he says something about 1990-something wanting its planner back. At the end of the movie when they are all kissy-kissy and she has thrown out her closet-full of dresses (and symbolically, her past), he gives her some electronic, very 21st century, planning gizmo.

Now, before watching this movie I had no feelings of inferiority surrounding my complete dedication to the paper and pen method of time-management. In fact, I wondered why these very-berry thingy-ma-jigs were so popular - what was the point? But suddenly, I am questioning my whole life and its so-called efficiency. Why exactly do I carry around a 5lb tome when I could have a slick, clicky thing that fits in my pocket... and it's a phone too! Now, there's true efficiency for ya.

But I don't have a blackberry, or even a strawberry for that matter, and I probably won't have for a very long time (well. maybe I will in 2038 when everyone else has their daily schedule implanted behind their eyelids).

But continue to plan I must.

So, it was with resignation I ordered a Franklin-Covey designed especially for busy mothers. But when it arrived, its pink and brown mommy-ness and unmarked pages laying flat and shiny waiting for my life to fill its lines, reminded me why I love them. Yes, it's heavy and not as fun or multi-taskerific as a handheld computer/phone/camera/music player/kitchen sink but until 2038 when my grandaughter's discarded device is passed on to me, my planner and I will continue to make plans the good old fashioned way.

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As an addendum to this story - when I opened my new planner and inhaled its scent in true addict fashion, my husband, who in true male fashion hates gift shopping, says to me, you better wrap that thing up and put it under the tree, it might the only thing you get. I think I deserve a blackberry after that comment... or at least a new cuddly sweater.