My husband, if you didn’t know, is in the military – Air National Guard, to be exact. He works on the local base full-time, in full camo uniform and everything. I just rarely mention it because, well, it just doesn’t seem to matter. We’re not a “military family” – he doesn’t get shipped out, we don’t move around. Once upon a time he was active duty and was living elsewhere and was sent overseas, but he’s been in the service for over 20 years now. Now it’s like he just has a full time job that happens to be on the base.

Unfortunately there are times when he has to go somewhere for some reason, and this was one of those times. He had to go to a training class for 2 weeks, but he got to pick which of the times of year he went. We thought long and hard about it. In April I was pregnant, then lost it and we had to plan for more IVF cycles. When I got pregnant with this little one we decided the best time for him to go would be my second trimester – hopefully that would be past the risky, scary miscarriage point, but not into the scary third trimester when we just really don’t want him going more than two steps from my side, just in case.

Yesterday as I fed the pets, took the dogs out, prevented the dog from harassing the cats, cleaned up the house and made myself dinner I thought about just how lucky we are that the timing is what it is. Thank goodness the nausea has greatly abated and that I have some energy back. I thought about even a month ago and I just have no idea how I would have done all this – I could barely function at work, I slept 12 hours a day, and I left almost all of the house chores to Den. I guess I didn’t really stop and think about how much more he has been doing until I had to do it all myself. As it is, as good as I feel physically, my temper was running short and I still got a headache from yelling at the dogs (who apparently think they don’t need to listen to mommy now that daddy’s gone).

Unfortunately – but expectedly – it is my husband’s dog, the shepherd, that is having the hardest time. He’s sucking up to me in a big way (when not harassing cats), but he is absolutely pathetic right now. Big, scary, confident 95lb german shepherd… howling and whimpering and looking out the window every time a car goes by. He is currently asleep next to me on the bed, which is apparently the only time he’s able to relax. But even when I’m petting him and telling him he’s a good boy, he’s still whimpering softly. He won’t be happy until daddy comes home. When I tell people Zeeke is my husband’s dog, I’m not kidding. Zoe, my little girl, loves me to bits but is just as happy with Den (truthfully I’m not entirely certain how much of the world really sinks in to her pretty little head). But Zeeke? Zeeke needs daddy. Period.

So the cats are just concerned that they get fed on time, Zeeke is being a pathetic crybaby, I had a tiny meltdown yesterday because I just felt overwhelmed and lonely, and Zoe is just confused as to why everyone is acting so strange. Another 12 days to get through. Thankfully I’ll be working most of them – it makes the time go faster.