More Letters to Tom

I've done these letters before and figured it was time to do them one more time.

My husband Tom is on TDY at military dog working school for a few more weeks. I write him letters to keep his spirits up because sometimes he calls and he sounds all depressed. Which, no offense, he shouldn’t sound depressed because if I got all that quiet time I’d be leaping in the air and clicking my heels. But Tom can get into these funks where nothing can make him crack a smile and it’s frustrating.

I do hope my letters cheer him up a little bit though.

The first one is the kind of letter that I actually send him:

Dear Tom,

I miss you! Especially at night. Sometimes I watch those shows about ghosts and aliens and you know me, I freak out. I miss being able to curl up in your lap as you assure me that ET isn’t going to come down and abduct me.

That IS pretty cool that some of the dogs you work with will eventually be retired and will need homes. Maybe in a few years, Tom. Right now I’m not sure my sanity can handle it.

The kids are doing well. Natalie will sometimes ask where you are and it is so cute. Tommy is also thrilled for you to be home. I think he’s fed up with the fact that I have no clue how to put Legos together. I do try, I really do, but somehow the instructions confuse me and Tommy gets frustrated and tells me that I’m doing it all wrong.

I’ve been making all sorts of different dinners so that when you come home I’ll have some new things to cook. I understand that a person can only eat so much spaghetti.

I can’t wait until we can go on a date, just the two of us. It’ll be so much fun! Afterwards we can go to a movie—I know we can’t agree on one but surely we’ll figure something out.

I’ll be seeing you in exactly two weeks. I picture us clapping eyes as I walk into the building where you’ll be graduating and our hearts will swell with love. I’ll gaze at you lovingly like they do on Grey’s Anatomy and you’ll gaze back and then we’ll start running with our arms spread and you’ll pick me up and spin me around as you kiss my lips. Then our children will rush over and throw their arms around us and we’ll be standing there in a beautiful family hug.

I can’t wait, Tom. I’ll see you soon.
Love,
Amber


This is the letter that I WANT to send to him:



Tom,

Holy shit you need to come home! I keep watching the ghost and alien shows even though I know better and then I’m totally freaked out. The other day I swore there was a ghost in the closet. I kept hearing a clunking sound and was shaking in horror in the bed. If you had been here I’d have curled up in your arms. Actually, I probably would have jumped on top of you and told you to KILL THE GHOST which would make no sense because the ghost is already dead. Of course then you’d probably get turned on because I was on top of you and I’d be all, “Tom! This is not an appropriate time for lovemaking! There is GHOST in the closet!”

There is no way we’re getting a dog, Tom. Are you kidding me? I can barely manage these two kids and you want to bring another living being in this house? Can you guess who will probably be stuck walking the dog? Yup, that would be me. I’d probably be hounding you to take the dog for a walk, for the love of God TAKE THE DOG FOR A WALK and you’d give me that wounded look as though I hurt your pride or something. But Tom, sometimes you aren’t that much of a help. Remember that one time when Natalie had crapped her pants and you sat there on the couch and pretended that you didn’t smell it even though it was obvious from your expression that you HAD? Then when I finished doing the dishes and smelt it you were all, “Oh, I had no idea she pooped.” I can just SEE you looking all baffled and being all, “I had no idea the dog needed to be walked…” So no, Tom. We won’t be getting a dog.

The kids are still driving me crazy. Natalie constantly asks where you are and I’m starting to think that something is wrong with her. I mean, I explain that you’re at dog training school and she seems to comprehend it….and then a few hours later she’s asking where you are again. Is there something wrong with her short term memory? Oh my God, what if she’s just like Izzy on Grey’s Anatomy and keeps forgetting things? Now I’m in a complete panic that something HAS to be wrong with her. You need to come home so you can assure me that she’s perfectly fine; that she’s just being a two-year-old and probably enjoys the power of having me repeat the same thing over and over again.

Tommy is downright pissed that I can’t put together his Lego sets. This really isn’t my fault. Why in the WORLD do they make pieces that look identical yet they really aren’t? For instance, I swore this one red piece clipped into this one blue piece but I was wrong…it was a completely different red piece that I needed that I swear, looked exactly the SAME. Why does Lego like upsetting me? Why is it so complicated? I gave birth to two human beings for chrissakes, I should be able to put together a Lego dinosaur! I survived Algebra class—and okay, I only scraped by with a C but still—the bottom line is I PASSED. Why is this Lego set not making any sense to me?

I am so sick of cooking. I’ve tried to make new recipes but a lot of them come out tasting like old dirty gym socks. Not that I’ve ever CONSUMED old dirty gym socks but I can imagine that they’d taste just like the Swedish meatballs I tried to put together. The sauce was all wrong and Tommy actually gagged one of the meatballs out and asked what was wrong with it. I followed the recipe! I swear I did! I’m just trying to figure out other things to make so that you don’t have to constantly eat spaghetti and Sloppy Joes. But Tom, I’m sorry, you may HAVE to eat a lot of spaghetti or Sloppy Joes as these seem to be the only adequate things I can prepare for dinner. Sorry. You should have married a woman who knew her way around the kitchen. Not one who burns things and who tells the recipe to kiss her pale ass when she doesn’t understand what it’s talking about.

I am thrilled to be going on a date with you. Isn’t my Mom so nice to take the kids for us? You won’t believe how excited I am to be dining on a meal in peace without two kids jabbering on in my ears. Oh, and it’ll be nice to actually eat my meal when it’s HOT. Usually my food is lukewarm by the time I finish cutting everyone’s meat up. I’m totally picking the movie we’re going to see afterwards, Tom. I earned it. I’ve kept these two children alive on my own for two and a half months and I’ve earned the right to pick the movie. I’m sorry, but we’re going to see The Proposal. I don’t CARE if chick flicks make you want to gouge your eyeballs out. You can deal with it for an hour and a half. Stare at Sandra Bullock or something! Maybe even Betty White if elderly people excite you. I don’t care. You just need to sit there and eat your nachos and let me watch my movie in peace. It’s really that simple. Do I need to remind you how many times you’ve forced me to sit through Saving Private Ryan? It’s over ten times but who is counting? I’ve been traumatized by the first ten minutes of that movie but does that bother you? No. All you kept saying was, “Isn’t this a fantastic film?” and I’d be sitting there with my hands over my eyes asking if the bloody scenes were over. It wasn’t funny that one time when you said yes and the bloody scenes really weren’t over. Now I have that image of that poor boy lying on the beach with his intestines splayed all over the place calling for his mother permanently etched in my brain.

In exactly two weeks we’ll be together again. I imagine you’ll just give me one of your ridiculous waves and will quickly plant a kiss on my lips while muttering, “Hello.” You’ve never been one for romantic reunions, have you Tom? Don’t be insulted if Tommy lifts his chin and stalks off—he’s just been missing you is all. And Natalie, well, if she swats your leg, please don’t take offense. She doesn’t understand why you had to leave even though I’ve explained it to her a billion times.

I will see you soon. I hope these two weeks fly by for my sanity’s sake.

Love,
Your frazzled wife