Can you find the husband?
I promise I do bathe my child-she looks greasy from the pounds of sunscreen I put on her.My husband is having a love affair.
Her name is Football.
And, it's on multiple levels of involvement, which includes but is not limited to, coaching the high school football team in our town, attending meetings that are a ridiculous amount of hours (as I send him with hot tamales in tow to keep them all entertained), attending four hour long practices, checking the ESPN application on his blackberry, and coaching the team playing on the television right from his seat in the living room.
I'm not as devastated as you might imagine. You know, considering my husband spends more time with a whole bunch of smelly, stinky boys than me. I laugh from within when he comes up with new ideas for practice drills and demonstrates them in our living room (seriously, like I care or understand what any of them are?), when he tells me how immature the high school boys can be (don't think I left that one untouched-I most certainly did inform him that it clearly doesn't change much to their late twenties), and when he pulls out a minute-by-minute schedule of the practice agenda.
I laugh because he's so particular, because he cares so much, and because he lights up like a child when he talks about anything football.
Then there's the other side of the equation. The one where I hardly know how to shut our house down at night because I'm so used to having him do that for me (us). Dinner is usually something quick and extremely bad for me, because I don't like waiting until 8:00 to eat dinner after having lunch at 11:00. I have to juggle Ruby while I wash bottles, pump, lay out her stuff for the next day, and take a shower. And traipsing up the stairs to get ready for bed by ourselves just seems wrong. I almost don't know how. It's nearly impossible for us to plan things because we have tiny windows of time that are impractical to work with. What does this mean for us? No social life, me running errands alone, and eating dinner alone each night...among other things.
Her name is Football.
And, it's on multiple levels of involvement, which includes but is not limited to, coaching the high school football team in our town, attending meetings that are a ridiculous amount of hours (as I send him with hot tamales in tow to keep them all entertained), attending four hour long practices, checking the ESPN application on his blackberry, and coaching the team playing on the television right from his seat in the living room.
I'm not as devastated as you might imagine. You know, considering my husband spends more time with a whole bunch of smelly, stinky boys than me. I laugh from within when he comes up with new ideas for practice drills and demonstrates them in our living room (seriously, like I care or understand what any of them are?), when he tells me how immature the high school boys can be (don't think I left that one untouched-I most certainly did inform him that it clearly doesn't change much to their late twenties), and when he pulls out a minute-by-minute schedule of the practice agenda.
I laugh because he's so particular, because he cares so much, and because he lights up like a child when he talks about anything football.
Then there's the other side of the equation. The one where I hardly know how to shut our house down at night because I'm so used to having him do that for me (us). Dinner is usually something quick and extremely bad for me, because I don't like waiting until 8:00 to eat dinner after having lunch at 11:00. I have to juggle Ruby while I wash bottles, pump, lay out her stuff for the next day, and take a shower. And traipsing up the stairs to get ready for bed by ourselves just seems wrong. I almost don't know how. It's nearly impossible for us to plan things because we have tiny windows of time that are impractical to work with. What does this mean for us? No social life, me running errands alone, and eating dinner alone each night...among other things.
I know what it would be like to be a partially single mom, and I never want it. I don't even want to know what it would be like to be alone all the times.
I told myself I would never become dependent on someone. Looks like I lied.
At least he loves it, right? That has to count for something
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