Guess what’s almost here, people! Deer hunting season, the most magical time of the year, after Halloween, Christmas, spring break and summer, of course. That’s right, I’m staring down the barrel of two, maybe three, glorious weekends as a single lady, when my husband, Doo, frolics in the Indiana wilderness attempting to ensure we have meat for the winter, or something like that. No matter, with my kids also gone, I am looking forward to lazy mornings, empty sinks and a bathroom that won’t stink to high heaven.
But it hasn’t always been this way. When our four children were little and November dawned, I’d let the resentment of Doo’s abandonment ride roughshod over me, fantasizing about ditching him for a girls’ trip to Aruba or a prolonged stint in the Peace Corps. I’d pray that he killed Bambi on the first day so I wouldn’t be stuck through Thanksgiving single-parenting precocious preschoolers with penchants for Sharpie buggery and nap avoidance. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I absolutely dreaded becoming a short-term hunting widow.
Now? I cannot wait to see Doo off with a heartfelt, “Don’t shoot your eye out!” Then it’ll be just me and the dog, a quiet and clean house, and however many episodes of “Grey’s Anatomy” I can binge in 43 hours. I am literally giddy at the prospect. And if I’m lucky, Doo will need to return to the frontier for several subsequent Friday-Saturday overnights to bag that elusive (read: mythical) 18-pointer (“he’s real, dangnabbit!”). Whatever.
All I care about it that the fifth-most wonderful time of the year is here – deer hunting season!
Peace out.
