Lately, once or twice a week Sean calls and tells me that he "might be a little late" and that I "should probably just start dinner." Even though he says it in the most polite, please-don't-yell-that-loudly-because-I-don't-want-my-cubicle-neighbor-to-hear-me-consoling-you voice, this is what I actually hear him saying :
"I know you have been stuck at home all day scraping Play Doh off the floor and pulling your hair out, and that you are probably on the verge of homicide, but guess what? YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN FOR DINNER AND BEDTIME SUCKA!"
So after I
weep in the bathroom for a couple minutes sigh and smile about my silly husband and his salaried job, I run to the cupboard to see if there is something in a box or a can that I could possibly mix together. This is the moment when I glance longingly at the liquor bottle sized empty space in the cupboard. I fantasize about an early happy hour, but instead stick my kid in front of PBS with a bowl of crackers while I heat up a box of pasta and a jar of white sauce.
It's February. I'm over the snow. I'm over sharing a car. I'm over Wisconsin.
So let me be more succinct. We don't have liquor in our house because we have a two year old, and it's winter, and let's face it- interventions are just so cliche.
2 comments:
No, I would say it is more like, "I know you appreciate how hard I am working for our family, I will be just an hour or two later. Enjoy this precious time with our son!" j/k I know it is tough, but you're doing a great job (even without the hard liqour)!
Oh, Emily, I think you know I'm right there with you. It's tough right now. Hang in there, and call me if you feel like company in your misery.
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