I love my wife. So much. Really a hell of a lot. It is in no way a reflection on her that I was really quite looking forward to her going out. Without me.
Not being able to go out, nearly ever, is one of the downsides of having small children. And my wife was in pretty desperate need of some adult company. I am technically an adult, but I don’t really count. She needed the company of other human adults for a change. And luckily for me she had to take our new baby son with her. She is, unfortunately for her, his only food source. It would be nice if my moobs had an actual useful function, rather than just wobbling embarrassingly when I run, but they cannot lactate. Thank God.
She left for her nattering session, she’d be nattering until quite late, possibly airing one or two minor grievances about me, but that’s fine. I want her to enjoy herself. She’s earned it, putting up with me, and of course surviving our tiny, noisy, breast obsessed little dictator.
And I long to watch a nerd film in my pants, something my wife finds both boring and distasteful. I’ve had a stomach bug for a week, I’m stressed, shattered, I’ve started letting out bitter laughter at inappropriate moments. I think I’m close to breaking point. This is laughable nonsense of course. I don’t even know what suffering is. Everytime I think I know my children teach me new levels. They keep teaching me, but I’m a slow learner.
I rush the kids off to bed and jump into an armchair, sans trousers. The film starts. Immediately things are blowing up. I sip a beverage. My jaw begins to unclench.
Five minutes later my son appears and informs me that his little sister has been sick in her bed. This is one of the truly great understatements of all time. She has somehow entirely covered her bed, and her own head, in sick. For the rest of the evening we play out our own live horror film.
Throughout, one thought goes through my tiny brain over and over.
I wish my wife was here.