Husband Eve – a definition:
‘A time when the arrival of the husband is imminent, when there is one more sleep until paired parenting can resume; a time when one must act like they have had their shit together for the last two weeks; a time to tidy the fucking house’.
I created the above definition this morning as I enthusiastically told my little one that there was ‘only one more sleep until daddy comes home!’ We do the countdown daily and now it brings us ever closer to the family reunion.
I get excited about Husband Eve for a number of reasons (and not the ones he might think). I get back up, I get help raising the little person who runs amok in the house, I get to sleep in, I get to go out (after 7pm) and most importantly I get to see how much my little boy loves having his daddy home.
Then I get unexcited about Husband Eve. I get the fear of having to cohabit again (and not watch as much Netflix). I get the fear that little love favours daddy and I get shunned for a while (this is ok really, I get it but it still hurts). I get the fear that just as I’ve adjusted to ‘family life’ he will go away again.
Anyone who has a partner who works long hours, shifts, is in the military, or the offshore industry etc will get this. Anyone who solo parents permanently be it through separation or bereavement gets my utmost respect. It’s not easy, it’s hard bloody work, it’s lonely, it’s a juggling act and during those times when your tiny person resembles Satan himself it feels almost impossible.
And now I must go and do all the washing that’s been left laying in heaps on the floor, I must do a decent food shop (not just daily trips to the M&S Simply Food Garage where I squander most of my money) and I must hide all the shite I’ve been eating cos I’m meant to be on a diet and I must ditch the empties into the recycling bin so he doesn’t think I’ve got a problem.
And then I’ll breath a sigh of relief and celebrate Husband Eve with my little one when I can be arsed enough to go and pick him up from nursery!