I know I’m a lightweight, but after 20 days on the road, I’m more than ready to go home. Everything seems like a chore, and I might become the tiniest bit whiny. I realize this about myself, and try really hard to trucker up, but some days are just poop.
I lost my will to live and my left sock in Mobile, Ala., last week. It had been a long night, I couldn’t sleep, and when George got up to drive at 5 a.m., I was less than sparkly. As usual, he was extremely patient with me.
“Do you want coffee?”
“No.”
“Something to drink?”
“No.”
“You OK?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I lost my left sock in my sleep and my foot is cold.”
“Well baby, why don’t you put the damn thing back on?”
“What part of ‘lost’ don’t you understand?”
This is where he realized the conversation would only get worse, so he left me in the bunk to grump while he got coffee and did his pre-trip.
I flopped over and drug myself out of the bunk, fully prepared to be surly. I noticed a message on my phone from our son, that had come in really late the night before. Any mother knows, when kids call or text after midnight, it generally means something awful. I grabbed the phone and opened the text.
Mom, I love you. Just thinking about you and wanted you to know.
Of course I started crying, but this time it wasn’t because I was being hateful, it was because I needed that connection, at that moment, so bad. I forgot about my cold left foot and returned the text.
I love you too, son. We’ll be home soon.
And then I truckered up, got my big-girl panties on, and decided to have a good day. Because it’s a choice – and one that I have to sometimes consciously make after three weeks on the road. I still don’t know where my left sock is, but I’m thankful for that one little text that reminded me people at home haven’t forgotten about us.
