It was the first snow storm of the year. I drove a 45 minute ride, in 2 1/2 hours. The plan was to come home to see my husband IK before he left to work the night shift. However, I was busy in combat with hills, ice and snow.
Instead he called to see where I was and how was doing. I wasn’t doing well. My foot was swollen and hurting from the constant driving, I explained to him. He fussed because it only reminded him that I did not go to a second doctor to figure out what was wrong with my foot. I tried to explain myself. Then I quickly realized my excuses was only valid in my head, and I would not get empathy from him.
I called out from work. I battled with this idea too. Although more than likely I wasn’t going to fight as much to get to work as I did to get home, my swollen foot was sufficient for me to get some rest.
The following morning, IK called me when he thought I was going to work. He knew from my morning voice that I wasn’t. He sound disappointed. We hung up.
I started to write. That’s what I do sometimes when I can’t fall to sleep. I write. Sometimes I dose off, and other times I write until I am forced to stop. That morning the idea of having breakfast ready when my husband came home, interrupted my flow.
We can have a simple but hardy breakfast of eggs, bacon and grits. First I will take a shower, put on his favorite perfume, and change these cozy mitch-match pajamas. Then we can talk while we eat in bed, with my foot elevated on stacks of pillows. Then he will kiss my neck and say thank you, I will smile and say you’re welcomed. We will cuddle until we fall asleep. I thought.
“Let me know when you’re close to home. I can make breakfast.” I texted him.
The phone rang seconds after.
It was official. He said that I didn’t have to worry about it if I was not hungry myself, but the tone in his voice said he would love to come home to a home-cook meal.
While waiting for his call I went back to writing. Before I knew it I heard tires rumble through the snow and Mr. B (my dog) ears perked up. That’s when I realized I forgot to make my husbands breakfast.
I checked the phone.
Husband (2 Missed Calls), it said.
I called him. Don’t ask me why. I heard it again in his voice. Disappointment. This time he had every right. I headed to the kitchen. However, when he said don’t worry about it this time, it sound like he meant it.
“It would only take a few minutes,” I try to convince him, as I fried up the bacon with extra oil, so it can cook faster. I scrabbled the eggs, instead of making over-easy. And I kept my eyes on the high flame that was on the small pot of grits. I did it. That was the fastest I ever made breakfast, ever. Unfortunately it was the fastest he ever went to sleep after work, the fastest.
“Baby are you sure you’re not going to eat?” I said.
“Yes. I am sure.” He said with his face buried to in the bed.
I could not believe that I let time slip away from me. I felt so guilty. I didn’t know what to do. Even eating didn’t feel right. So, Mr. B finished what I could not eat.
I dropped the ball on this one. Balancing the life of a writer and wife.