February 18, 2011


I have butterflies in my stomach. Today is the day he comes home. Except that I have no idea what time to expect him. He hasn't been deployed, he's been undergoing the most difficult portion of his training to date. I can't go pick him up, and there is no prideful march across the field while we stand waving flags. I'm at home just waiting.

Everything is done. The kids are clean, the floors are swept, mopped, or vacuumed. The laundry is done and folded, and I've laid out some comfortable clothes for him. There is nothing left to do but wait. My heart jumps at any sound out on the road. The mailman, UPS, FedEx, the neighbors. . . my heart accelerates and I  am at the window to see if it's him. Today is the last day, and I'm riding a fine line between nerves and tears. Each time that it's not him I want to fly into a child-like rage, as if that would make him get here sooner.

I am nervous to hear about what he's been doing the last several weeks, nervous to see what he looks like. I know he'll be too tired to do much, and I will try not to overwhelm him with what we've been doing while he's been away. It almost feels like he's been gone for months. I check my watch for the 10th time in as many minutes. This day is dragging by.

The anticipation of this day is overwhelming. Where is he?

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