Two days in the life of Dani and Bubs

So by design, I never talk about politics on this blog. That doesn’t mean I don’t care — it just means that making things divisive among the few readers I have left probably isn’t the way to keep everyone around.

But for Bubs and me, politics are fair game.

As much as we love each other — as much as I literally still see the stars in his eyes — there is very little we agree on politically. I think he’s an unfeeling libertarian driven only by data. He once said, “You’re somewhere left of Lenin, if Lenin were a paranoid housewife and teacher who sees everyone as her student or her baby.”

Rude. Accurate. Annoyingly funny.

I won’t get into specifics, but politics have hit a fever pitch lately, and maybe like the country itself, Bubs and I took up our very predictable positions.

Earlier in the week he had a night flight, which meant he was home most of the afternoon. We could not let each other off the hook. We’d bicker, take a break, then one of us would see a social media post that validated our already entrenched position and the war was on again.

Things escalated when Abby was working on a worksheet about the metric system and I was helping her. My goddamned know-it-all husband decided this was the moment to announce:

“You know, the imperial system gets a lot of hate, but in many ways it’s superior for everyday measurements.”

My eyes nearly rolled out of my skull.

I ignored him and slipped into my best teacher voice, explaining that the U.S. planned to adopt the metric system in the 1970s, but people just couldn’t get used to it.

“Well actually,” he said, “I’ve always thought the problem was that the meter is too big for people to visualize. If they had pushed the decimeter as the standard… eighteen decimeters is easier to picture than 1.8 meters. You know, for height.”

Abby adores her dad, but even her eyes rolled. I shooed him away.

Not that it helped — because then I heard him in the other room telling TJ that his flight would include gunnery practice and he might be able to bring home some spent shell casings.

Usually, I try to drag out Bubs leaving for a flight as long as possible. That night I was like, “Hey honey, don’t want to be late! Want me to have the kids help you carry your bags to the car?”

So he left.

And he left me with an eight-year-old following me around while I tried to manage bedtime alone:
“Hey Mom, what kind of bullets is Dad bringing me?”
“Hey Mom, Dad says there are bad people in Iran — would those bullets kill them?”

If I could have wrapped my hands around Bubs’ neck in that moment, I might have never let go.

To make matters worse, I despise flying. I despise my husband flying. It’s his lifelong dream, so I rarely voice my fear — instead I cope by not sleeping, checking the news, and praying until he’s home. When he flies at night, I usually wait up for a full debrief at 2:30 or 3 a.m.

That night, I decided I wasn’t doing it. I was going to ignore him when he got home. Very mature.

When I heard the garage door open at 3:15, I was ecstatic — but committed to the bit. He showered, brushed his teeth, and got into bed like a goddamned ninja. He didn’t try to “wake” me at all.

I was furious. He was ignoring me ignoring him. Worse, I could practically hear his relief: Thank God she’s quiet for once.

Morning was tense. TJ was ecstatic over his “treasure” — spent bullets that “smelled amazing” and which he was very sure he should take to school.

Simultaneously:
Bubs: “Of course, bud!”
Me “NO.”

To Bubs’ credit, he saw my glare and immediately pivoted: “Hey bud, your mom’s the teacher — let’s go with her judgment.” If hid didn't give me that win, he would have never gotten laid again. Smart man.

He left for work with an impersonal peck on the cheek. After getting the kids ready, I did what any rational wife would do: I stalked him on Find My Friends.

There’s an old, rundown motel on I-10 outside Tucson — the parking lot is always full, we always joke that it must rent rooms by the hour. Guess where Bubs’ location was?

With nerves shot and sleep deprivation doing its thing, I maintained my composure on the way to school but my mind was racing: Was this it? Was this how a 20 year relationship ended? Was my reaction to the stress of the night to ignore him, while his was to seek the comfort of another in a cheap motel? I dropped off the kids, pulled into a parking lot, and called him. 

“Hey cutie, what’s up?”
“…What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Craig.” (Deep shit when I use his real name.) “You are at a hotel.”

He laughed far more than the situation deserved.

“Showing you I’m not ignoring you,” he said.

"What?"

“I knew you’d be stalking me,” he continued. “So I took the long way to work to get your attention. It worked. I love you, and I’m sorry about last night.”

I could have laughed. I could have melted. I could have wrapped my hands around his neck again. I settled somewhere in the middle and told him I missed him.

He took the day off. We reconnected. We took care of Ashley. We talked about how we are going to handle to two older kids' birthdays (Abby will be 10 this year and in my family that is something of a milestone)

So I guess, despite everything, we still love each other — a lot.

No guarantees that I won’t ever put my hands around his neck again, though.