The moment my husband walks through the door, coming home from a long day’s work, my thoughts can sometimes wander on over to the dark side of the moon. So grab a box of tissues because, you—husband or wife—will either be crying of sadness or laughter, upon reading this.
When my husband walks through the door on a good day—which means a day where the stars have aligned, and God has gifted me with a restful night’s sleep (not a full nights sleep, no. Those are long gone), and I haven’t destroyed a bag of chocolate chips, then my thoughts will land on, “Oh good. You’re home.”
But if I’ve surrendered to my surroundings, and the hope for the day was crumbled by 6am, then my night in shining armor is in for a treat.
Now, here’s where it depends solely on him as to how the night will progress.
Dear husband.
Will you look straight into my stank eye and say, “Hello, my beautiful bride, can I relieve you? You seem like you need a bath and a bottle of this 1972 Bordeaux that I picked up on the way home. Don’t you worry about dinner, I’ll take care of that. Oh, and by the way, have you lost weight? That late afternoon snacking has done you good.”
If you don’t say THAT, then all hope is lost.
Yes, my darling. All hope for an evening girded in unconditional love and tender mercies have been thrown out, along with your video game trinket that came in the mail from Amazon today.
And while we’re at it, I’m going to projectile word vomit all over your nice, clean suit with what happened today. It doesn’t matter if you’re listening, just as long as you’re not staring at your first love—your iPhone.
Here are my thoughts.
After my feet hit the ground WAY too early because you forgot to turn off your alarm, not remembering the kids had the day off of school, I couldn’t fall back asleep like you so easily do.
No, my bowels have decided to sync up with your alarm clock now. And since I’m out of bed anyway, I’ll go ahead and make breakfast so you can sleep longer. And by the way, it’s ALL your fault that I didn’t sleep last night. I had a dream that you made me stab a raccoon in the heart with a small garden shovel, and then as I watched it slowly die, you cheated on me with a supermodel.
I gave you a good shove in the middle of the night, but you were sleeping so deep that you must have missed it.
And even though I sleep with government-grade earplugs, an eye mask, and a pillow over my head, I still heard the baby crying before you did, so I had no choice but to rock him back to sleep and clean the toilet with your toothbrush.
Yes, these are the thoughts that go through my mind when you come in the door and let out your lie of a sigh as if YOUR day was hard. I bet you’re tired from sipping that craft beer your company has on tap in the lunchroom.
Or from playing b-ball with your hipster bros, and going in the company sauna afterward. My workout today consisted of carrying our toddler out of the supermarket, as he reached into the grocery bag I had in the other arm, and pulled out the glass bottle of Kombucha I just bought and dropped it on the parking lot pavement.
And just in case you were wondering, that Kombucha was my lunch after being asked if I was pregnant by the principle of our other child’s school yesterday. I’m not pregnant, by the way.
After the grocery store, I went home, fed the kids lunch, sat one in front of the TV as the other took their nap, and finally. FINALLY, I had some time to myself.
As I opened my laptop to brainlessly watch another episode of friends and youtube videos on how to apply makeup to mature skin, I realized that the small child we own wasn’t sleeping, but had in fact opened his freshly pooed in diaper, and was playing in it like it was some kind of homemade play-doh he had created for himself.
Pretty sure he ate some, too.
But after I got it all cleaned up, and the small child was finally asleep, I moseyed on over to the bed to watch my stories, and I got a full 20 minutes of downtime before I realized our taxes were due the next day.
After the small one woke up, and the older one yelled at me for turning off the TV, I realized it was time to gird my loins and open the bottle—correction, BOX of wine, and repeat the verses on anxiety in my head over and over again because, lets face it, those are the only ones I have managed to keep memorized with this mom brain of mine.
Oh, I’m sorry, am I overwhelming you with my feelings?
Let me finish up real quick, and you can mosey your perfect little booty on over to the couch while I make dinner.
So, there you were, coming in the front door from work as my mind replayed the day and expected you to know what had happened, and I gave you the stank eye.
And from that, you should know exactly how I feel, what I need, and that is a vacation alone with myself, on a desert island.
If you don’t know ALL of that from this look I’m giving you right now, then, this night will not end well.
Now, please go pick up some chick-fil-a because our first world problems seem to disappear the moment that salty, buttery chicken hits my tongue.
How as your day?
