Perhaps you've noticed, but then again maybe you're too distracted by the kids' rantings and ravings: children don't let their parents talk.
Never ever ever so long as we all shall live.
Given our busy days with hubby at work and me living my workish life at home we hardly even get to email each other.
Gone are the days of love notes penned on pretty paper left for each other on the table. I'm lucky if I can find a blue crayon to write my grocery list on the back of one of my son's innumerable worksheets (I maintain, the only work involved is for the parents to find somewhere to put them)
So this is my fantasy. I write notes to my husband in my head. And like a puppet I have him respond. Oh his responses are often quite lovely, though sometimes they are designed to put whiney, unappreciative me in my place.
Todays note goes something like this:
My migraine is finally gone (praise the Lord), but YOUR daughter is working hard to bring it back. Yes, I am sure she's your daughter. I do not have a temper; you do. Therefore the temper tantrums she exhibits in excess of ten times a day are definitely as a result of your (less than desirable, I may add) genetic material.
I don't need medicinal Coca-Cola for my migraine, but I do need preventative chocolate. Please bring me home a chocolate treat from work.
The baby has broken another plate. Next time YOUR parents visit can you explain to your mother that I not a negligent parent, bad dishwasher, or lazy housewife that throws out dirty dishes instead of washing them? I know that she will comment (again) on our lack of sideplates and glasses. We are almost out of sideplates now and I have not broken a single one. No, I was not there when he flung his plate from his highchair. I was in the bathroom peeing - I'm trying not to get another bladder infection. I think I deserve two two minute breaks a day to pee.
Anyway, seeing as how it's only you and he that manage to break dishes on a fairly consistent basis I'm certain that that too is genetic and ultimately it is your parents' fault anyway.
The laundry will not be done when you get home. If you mention it I will probably cry. So please don't mention it.
The devil just dropped in. After our daughter's last tantrum measuring 12,000 decibels and a 8.9 on the Richter Scale she apparently shook hell so badly that the dog run broke. Apparently we have unleashed the hounds of hell. He claims I must round them up as it's my responsibiity.
Must go. Love you.
Dearest, most darlingest wife,
First, allow me to apolgise. I will try my hardest to remember your chocolate, but you know my sieve-like mind. I am sorry my poor genetic material caused such a monster to be born.
Tell the devil to shag off; you're too busy to deal with the likes of him.
I'll buy dishes before my parents visit again. And perhaps I am finally willing to admit that your idea of spending more money on stainless steel ones may actually end up costing us less in the long run.
Try to remember, my dear, that faulty genetics and all, you chose me. And we chose to have children. The children did not get to choose who their mother was. I think they did pretty good out of it. I admire your patience and skill with them. I know they can be absolute beasts and that's all my fault.
I am, as always, your ever-admiring, ever-loving husband.
PS: If you don't get the laundry done today does that mean we can get the bed sheets dirty tonight?
And that, dear folks, is how my sordid little fantasies work out. In actuality there will probably be this exchange at the end of the day:
Husband walks through door.
Me: The laundry isn't done. The children have been horrible. At least supper is made. Did you bring home any chocolate?
Husband: Was I supposed to bring home chocolate?
Me: Oh never mind . . .
Later that night in bed . . .
Husband: There's something sticking into me.
Me (verging on tears): I told you I didn't get the laundry finished!
Husband: You did? oh. Right. Mmmmmmmmm . . . I love you.
You picture the rest. Or don't because that would be a little wierd.
Now dish! I know I'm not the only one that does this more grown up, more literary version of talking to the mirror (Oh Gawd, I hope I'm not!). Blog your own and leave a link in the comments here. One of these days I'll work out that McLinky thing.