But who's counting?
Right. That's the time left between today and our arrival in Israel. The Husband is already there, trying to fix the dud shemesh at the apartment, purchasing minor household items (dogfood, light bulbs and so on) and getting it ready. He's been gone 2 and 1/2 days---and I hate it.
We're a couple who worked together in the same field; saw each other daily; often had a coffee break or lunch together. All of this was to make up for the craziness of our working schedules--we had time to touch base during every day away from the house and the office. The office has its own demands and the house was usually full of children-with-various-immediate-needs. We knew we were fortunate because we also know couples who each commute a hour in different directions and don't see each other during the day.
Addiction has its price. Now I'm suffering withdrawal. Well, it's not that bad, but I am unaccustomed to not hearing his voice, bouncing ideas off of him, sleeping alone, being the sole responsible parent with a decidedly two-parent child. The fact that The Boy misses him also doesn't escape me--he's being very manly, brave and adolescent about the whole thing, but in a moment of weakness, he confided, "I really miss Abba."
He probably also really misses Abba's cooking, which is superlative. Imma's cooking isn't any more. I was a superlative cook before I was married but when someone else preempts Head Chef position in a working woman's life, I'm not about to argue. I'm out of practice and at the moment, very unmotivated.
I could cope with this better if I could escape into something I have a desire to do, such as taking a class, reading a book, going to the beach, or something kef but that's not an option. The only option is to continue to sort and clean and pack while surrounded by the detritus of what used to be a home and is now just a lonely outpost of golus, and count the days.
But here's the bright side: when my greatgrandmother sent her husband ahead to the Goldene Medina, they were apart for a year--and there was no telephone, no internet, and given the cost of postage by Atlantic steamer, probably no mail. So I should just quit whining and count myself lucky, right?
Ah, motek, I really miss you!