Dear Husband…


Dear Husband


Sorry if yours is the plate that is always smashing down. I know you pretend it doesn’t matter and that you’ll always be here but sometimes your eyes betray you. I don’t know why I always drop this plate. I don’t choose it; it kind of chooses me. Maybe it is because you don’t shout the loudest, maybe it’s because you’re made of the toughest porcelain, maybe it’s because I trust that this plate always bounces but it definitely isn’t a judgement of the value of the china. This ones made of the good stuff. The kind your parents save for Christmas dinners.

I’m really sorry that I never cook. I know I should. I expect you would like me to sometimes. It’s just that after I’ve made and cleaned up several meals for the little one in a day, I’m not that bothered about eating myself. It doesn’t occur to me that you need to eat too or that you won’t be as happy with a packet of popcorn and a loaf of malt loaf.

I’m really sorry that I am not a clean freak. Of all the plates that I am spinning, I couldn’t even be bothered to set this one into orbit. I’ve never liked cleaning. Except for pocket money dusting, listening to Dire Straits in my parents living room, when I was fiver years old. I think that was more about the dancing. I like dancing. Maybe we should get a cleaner.

I’m really sorry you only feel like I only want you sometimes. It’s not you. It’s not even me. It’s the exhaustion. The all consuming desire to ‘get the timing right’ is equally as exhausting as the circus clown spinning. It’s another plate. It’s up there and you can choose to smash that one. Sometimes that makes me mad. Sometimes it makes me act like an unromantic, desperate. Soz.

I’m sorry we don’t go on many dates anymore. I miss them too. Especially the ones with the dancing! Truth is, for the first solid year of our baby’s life, I couldn’t bear to leave her with anyone but you. Doesn’t really work for a date. Leaving her with anyone else felt terrifying; it meant I’d think all the bad thoughts. Doesn’t really work for a date.

I’m sorry I’m not as ‘wild’ as I was. I want to be wild and free too. But only if I’m back in bed by midnight and you are looking after HQ. One day we’ll be wild again together. One day we’ll be free.

I’m sorry if I suggest I’m more tired, more ill, and more unhappy than you. I know that’s not necessarily true but I am louder, more emotional and more needy than you. Please don’t stop hugging me; there’s a hug in there for you too.

I’m sorry if you think I’ve made my career more important than yours. It’s not. You count and you are truly amazing at what you do. I just want our daughter to know mummy had a job too and she made the most of the choices that some women don’t ever get the opportunity to make.

I’m sorry you keep slipping. You’re the bloody Royal Daulton of men. I want to be an amazing wife but I’m also busy trying to be a shining example of what it means to be an amazing mum, woman, sister, daughter, teacher, friend, and human being too.

Love you lots


P.S Can you catch a plate?

P.P.S I know I eat all the cake and chocolate too. That aint ever gonna change.

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