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Catch Ya Later, Dude

Somewhere out there are a million conversations that Rob and I plan to finish.

And I know that most of them we probably won’t.

I also know that someday, Rob and I will be old and empty-nested and most likely will have moments when we long for someone to break the silence or throw a coal of energy on a dull moment.

For now, however, I keep telling myself that I need to keep a small notebook handy to write down all of the things I need to follow up with my husband about. Something like ask about him running into an old friend at the gym. Or find out what he meant when he said something was up at work today. That notebook would be a great tool to keep Rob and me abreast of each other’s lives. Like say, we could meet up around midnight, compare our notes, and say things like “OH YEAH, I was telling you how I saw So-and-So at the gym today and listen to this …” and I’d actually hear the rest of the story. Or I could get out my ENTIRE, like all at once, story about what I’d talked about with Logan’s teacher. Or the zillions of other little things that get lost out in space when you try to have an adult conversation with young children running around.

On Friday night, this was never more apparent.

Rob and I were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a meal (YES, a SEPERATE meal from the boys, don’t get me started, that’s another post entirely). The boys were in the TV room all set up with their must see TV of the moment: Star Wars: The Clone Wars series. Adam was playing trains in the room with them. All is peaceful, all is quiet. I took a big breath and gave it a try …

“Hey,” I began, “You never said how your day was today.”

“Actually it was really interesting,” Rob answered. “Listen to this—”

“HEY GUESS WHAT! LOOK!” Ryan flew into the room on the wings of his cape.

“THAT GUY HAS A GIANT GUN!” and he was kind enough to even turn on the kitchen TV for us so that we could see that, yes, indeed, some clone/robot/ewok/whatever character had a large laser gun capable of wiping out an entire race.

“Great, Ryan” we replied. “Thanks for sharing.” Off Ryan went to the TV room and back we went to Rob’s day.

“So anyway, I think that—”

“DADDY! SEE! SEE THAT GUY! THAT’S YODA!”

“Yes, I see!” Rob called back, then again to me, “Okay, I heard that—”

“Hey, I bet you don’t know what city in our state has the highest population!” Logan beamed, suddenly beside us. He had his Almanac for Kids book and was ready to deliver all kinds of fabulous facts that we needed to know. Right. Then. Rob allowed Logan to feel smarter than us for one second then reminded him that Mommy and Daddy are talking now, please try not to interrupt.

Again: “ANYWAY, I bumped into So-and-So in the lunchroom and—”

“OH my gosh, I forgot to get turkey bacon at the store.”

Admittedly, that was me, not one of the boys. I’m just as bad. We all are. Rob does it to me, I do it to him, the boys do it to us. It’s why NO ADULT CONVERSATION EVER GETS FINISHED AROUND MY HOUSE.

“Sorry,” I told him. “What happened again today?”

“OK, well I was—”

“OWWWW! ADAM WANTS TO SIT ON MY CHAIR AND HE IS TRYING TO BITE ME TO GET ME OFF OF IT!” wailed the TV room.

Rob and I could only shake our heads, shrug, and realize that once again, our conversation would take place in little puzzle-like pieces. It’s like the boys have an alert system that lets them know when one or both of us are not focused on them in any way shape or form. And it’s not like we DON’T pay attention to them, it’s just that there seem to be two things that parents are unable to do without buzzing their kids’ Second Fiddle Alarm System. They are:

1. Talk on the phone

2. Talk to your spouse 

So, like I said earlier, I take it in stride, knowing that someday there is a possibility that I might actually want these moments back.

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