Technical Vacation

My husband is gone.

Mr. Husband has abandoned me this week for Tech Ed in Orlando. Ok, he didn’t technically abandon me for the technical side of life, and I’m very glad he went as he needed his religion, but I am home alone. I’m no Macauley Culkin and I’m not having hijinx with a couple of silly burglars; I’m sitting here wishing I had Mr. Husband to talk to or sing silly songs to (and hoping I don’t have to deal with burglars, silly or otherwise).

He is my backboard that I hit my thoughts against like a tennis ball. And I realize right now—right now—how tied together and dependent we’ve been on each other since before the wedding. We truly haven’t been apart for very long since October, and I find that we really are together all the time. We work together. We ride to work together. We eat lunch together. We ride home from work together. We sit in the same one-room apartment with each other for the remainder of the night, and then we curl up beside each other and fall asleep at night to the comforting sound of the other one breathing.

I like to take care of other people rather than focus on myself. It’s not like I’m ignoring Heather, but I find my self-expression through playing off another. I’m a twin. I suspect this is learned behavior from growing up with Harold. Harold and I did everything together. We dressed alike in the clothes our mother made us wear. We spoke our own language that only the two of us could understand. We learned to ride bikes together. We learned that I cannot run faster if Harold ties me to the back of his bike with a rope to pull me. We learned that the ends of toes really do tear off when dragged across concrete. We learned that cut toes eventually heal. We were child scientists. We built a tree house together that was really a rocket ship. We rode the bus together. We learned to tell time and tie our shoes together. We grew up side by side.

People say that Harold didn’t have to speak until he was about five-years-old because I answered for him. I took care of him.

I’m fortunate in that with my Mr. Husband I’ve found someone who also takes care of me. Mr. Husband’s primary gift—his magic—is that he is a listener. And I quiz him often to make sure that his gift does not disappear. (You have to keep a gift active so that it does not fade into hibernation like a bear. Gifts tend to mimic the Great North American Grizzly Bear if not kept on their toes. More about toes.) He always has a ready ear for everyone; it is not just me. However, I’d like to think that my verbal music receives a slight bit more attention than others might since I’m the one who falls asleep to his rhythmic breathing at night. Mr. Husband will just about drop anything to take care of someone in need who needs to vent. I do that a lot. I’m often in need. I vent. He makes me feel vented.

There has never been anyone else in my life to whom I look for when I need good, logical advice. There has never been anyone whose opinion I can trust more than Mr. Husband. (Of course, I have super friends like Dowling who the world regards as a genius, but he’s busy changing the world of sockets.) Mr. Husband is patient and kind and listening always when I need an ear to fill. He is immediate and there.

And this, more than the comforting sound of breathing at night and the warm body that heats up like my very own electric blanket, is what I miss more than anything when I cannot physically walk into his office to discuss something that needs a logical ear. We’re a good team. He’s the strength in most things while I have the social aspect of things nailed down tight.

Feed your head, Mr. Husband. Remember what the Dormouse said. And bring me back my electric blanket and logical backboard. I’m going to chase rabbits.