Six Weeks Ago:
My in-laws come to visit us in Florida. Ethan and I travel with them back to North Carolina so I can convalesce at my parents' home until Noah finishes his training in Pensacola. It's my idea, something about how he was in this really difficult training course, then had to come home and care for a four-year-old and a pregnant Sicky McSickerson and do all the cooking and cleaning. Tears ensue.
Five Weeks Ago:
My mom and I begin our monthlong passive aggressive War of the Thermostat. She never accepts that I can tell the difference between 74 and 73 degrees; I win because of constant vigilance.
Four Weeks Ago:
I run out of Zofran for two days. Much nausea and vomiting ensue.
Three Weeks Ago:
I watch the French Open. In it's entirety. I'm incensed by the occasional lapse in TV coverage, which reduces my tennis watching to a mere five hours a day. My main daily activities are moving from the couch to the chair and from the chair to bed.
Two Weeks Ago:
Starting to feel better, and our separation from Noah begins to wear on Ethan and I both. The "Invisible Man" frames Ethan for a number of crimes, including hiding all my jewelry under my parents' dresser and removing all the rubber door stops from around the house and stashing them in a decorative vase in the dining room.
One Week Ago:
Noah wraps up his training in Pensacola. Once again he is the valedictorian, because he tends to be the valedictorian of life. He drives through the night in a moving truck and arrives at 2 a.m., at which time Ethan begins to fill him in on all our activities of the past five weeks.
We're home. We're together. We're happy. We're once more blanketed in dog hair.