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On Going to Florida

Every few months, in my house, my husband and I have a conversation that normally goes like this with a few variations:

Me: Wah, wah, wah, I miss my mommy.
Husband: I’m sorry.
Me: Wah, wah, wah, it’s so cold here.
Husband: Yeah, that’s Wyoming for ya.
Me: Wah, wah, wah, I hate it here.
Husband: No you don’t.
Me: Wah, wah, wah, the kids miss their grandparents.
Husband: Why don’t you make a trip to Florida?
Me: Oh, no, I can’t do that <insert money excuse> and <insert other excuse>.
Husband: Whatever. You can go down there for a while, it’ll be ok.
Me: Oh, no, I don’t want to leave you.
Husband: Ok.

<a few days later>

Me: Wah, wah, wah you’re never home.
Husband: I know, I’m sorry. Go to Florida.
Me: No.
Husband: OMG, just go to Florida, dang it!
Me: No, I can’t do that.
Husband: GO TO FLORIDA!
Me: No.

<a few days later>

Me: I want to go to Florida.
Husband: FINALLY! OMG! We’ll leave next week!

Within a few days, I normally change my mind back to staying here. For various reasons. Once, we had a warm snap for a few days, so I stayed here, then Old Man Winter showed back up and slapped me for being naive.

Since we’ve been in Wyoming, every year, I’ve driven back to Florida and stayed for two-three months. That way The Husband can work as much as he wants without me whining at home, he can take extra shifts because he doesn’t have to worry about leaving me and the kids at home all alone.

Also? I just like to talk to people that are grown up that are not my husband. Have I mentioned that I have NO friends here?

That’s my fault, but that’s a different post for a different day.

In July, we move. We move so that I can go to the University and finish up my degree so that I can work. It’s not that I don’t want to stay home with my kids, it’s that I can’t. I’m not made for it. Seriously. I don’t know why, but I’m just not. It took a while for me to be okay with that, but I finally am. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, where I’m going, and I feel like that’s okay.

Anyways, every year I make the trip to Florida. Sometimes, it helps. Sometimes, it doesn’t. Most of the time, I can’t wait to get back “home” — to Wyoming. To my husband.

For years after I married my husband, I thought of Florida as “home”. Now, I consider wherever he is “home”. I may forget that, I may run back to Florida, but at the end of the day, I can’t wait to get back “home”.

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