My Husband is Spending a Week at a Hotel on the Ocean

Yep.

And here I am. Telling my tale to you lovely folks.

We dropped Hubs off at the airport bright and early this morning. The poor man had to take three (quiet!) flights to Corpus Christi, Texas. A long day of travel, for sure. He texted me to let me know that he landed safely. And he sent me this:

That's the view from his (quiet!) tenth floor balcony. He's ON THE OCEAN. If your screen is too small, that blue stuff? Yeah - salt water. Waves crashing. I'm pretty sure those little dark things in the lower corner are palm trees.

Woe is my husband. He misses his family.

Meanwhile, here at home, it's been sort of a shit show. A shit show and an orange juice show and a "Get to your rooms!" and a "Why won't you just go to sleep?!" show.

I stocked up on yogurt smoothies. Kids love 'em, I got them for $1. I told those same kids that they couldn't have them until after dinner. After four trips to the car, I got the groceries put away, reminded the kids that they could NOT have yogurt smoothies, and sat down to nurse Muffin. Who comes wandering out with an open bottle of orange juice, but Beam. Before I can grab it, she dumps it. All over me. All over Muffin. All over the couch. All over the ottoman.

I scream. Unlatch Muffin. He screams. I glance in the kitchen to see Big Kid and Toast OPENING YOGURT SMOOTHIES. The fridge is wide open.

Yep, I lost it. Pretty sure all five of us screamed for a good seven minutes.Three of us, while in bed, two of us, while cleaning orange juice and changing our clothes.

Meanwhile, my husband:

Beam, my two year old, has been actively trying not to poop for two days. (For you non-parents out there - withholding poop. Yes, this is a THING. You're welcome.) This results in her banshee-like screams every 20 to 30 minutes, followed by, "I'm pooped. I'm pooped a lot. Change my diaper." (Her diaper is clean. I tell her so.) At one point, while I was trying to make dinner, she stopped screaming, stripped down to her diaper, strapped herself into Muffin's bouncy chair, and started singing Five Finger Death Punch.

That was a lovely three-and-a-half minutes.

Meanwhile, my husband:

And now, Muffin has awoken from the land of dreams. He's screaming, again.

Big Kid and Toast are (quietly, thank God!) creating a "Car Roller Coaster" on the living room floor. Even though access to Muffin is blocked, I guess I still have to risk life and limb and my poor feet and try to climb over 750 Matchbox cars and retrieve the screaming baby.

And meanwhile, my husband:

And his hotel? Not only does he have an ocean view from his room, because you know - that's not enough. 

THAT SHIT HAS A ROOF TOP POOL. Surely he will send me some pictures of that later this evening. 

After he eats a steak and drinks a beer. No cold tacos and grapes for the big guy.