Nothing happened today.

Exciting stuff, right?

I woke up at o’dark thirty (for civilians reading this, that’s the official name of any time that involves an alarm clock going off long before the sun hits the sky or normal people are moving).

I poured my first cup of coffee, tripping over random animals trying to shake the sleepies out of my eyes.

I booted up my laptop and looked for signs of “him” — you know, the cause of the big achy feeling in my heart that never abates when he’s gone. There’s a seven hour difference between us now which makes catching each other tricky. I find myself doing addition each time I look at my watch. What time is it where he is? And then I speculate about what he’s doing.

I notice he “liked” and commented on the photos I shared on his Facebook wall of baby girl in her performance of The Little Mermaid at camp yesterday and a lump forms in my throat. He’s the kind of dad who would be at every game, concert, play, you name it, if he were here and not there. I reassure myself that I clapped twice as loud for her to cover his missing applause.

I keep a running list of things to share with him at those rare times we can talk. Connor lost a tooth two days ago. Sara won awards at her swim meet last week. We needed a plumber but I have it under control. Those small, seemingly insignificant things in the big picture that comprise our lives in his absence. It’s all I can do to keep him here with us and us there with him.

I’ll spend the rest of the day as I usually do — herding children, playing chauffeur, putting in a day of work, putting out fires (hopefully just figurative ones) and when I call it a wrap, I’ll send him good morning wishes as I kiss the kids goodnight.

Nothing happened today. But he wasn’t here to share it. And “nothing” is always better with him by my side.