A year or so ago, my husband took his first international trip, to Ireland. He flew for a ridiculous amount of hours, got off the plane, took a shower, then had a full day of meetings. Just as he crawled into bed and fell into the sleep of the dead, he was awoken by a panicked call from me, telling him that Max was choking on a random object, was in the ER, and was about to be transported via ambulance to another ER where he would most likely require surgery. Luckily, Max didn't require surgery, and we were released that night only slightly worse for the wear.
His second trip was to Germany, and he managed to be there a few days before he received another panicked call from me telling him that Abby had gotten in a horrific bike accident and ended up with stitches in her chin and scrapes and bruises all over her body. He started laughing at the timing of it all and I nearly hung up on him.
He was supposed to go to Hong Kong at the end of October, when I was 35 weeks pregnant. His boss forever endeared herself to me when she told him that there was no way in you-know-where that he was getting on a plane with a wife who was 35 weeks pregnant and was threatening pre-term labor. To this day, I believe that had he gone on that trip, I would have gone into labor the minute the plane took off.
This morning my husband left for his third international trip. 8 days in Singapore. I think I'm going to head upstairs, wrap all four kids in bubble wrap, lock them in their rooms, and then lock all the doors.
I'm only halfway joking.
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