The man is home. I slept gloriously late, desperately trying to erase my body’s memory of a week of handling every nightmare, every bedwetting accident, every early awakening. Last night, we admired our sleeping kids together and watched So You Think You Can Dance, side-by-side on the sectional, until he fell into a jet-lagged stupor. (Time to jet-lagger stupor, approximately 40 minutes. This is about 28 minutes longer than I would have predicted.)
We are now side-by-side at our computers listening to the kiddos play in the other room. One just came in and asked for “stick cheese” (i.e. string cheese), and I didn’t have to get up and get it. Later I am going grocery shopping by myself. The house is already getting messier with him home, but I don’t care. Because I didn’t have to get up and get my kid his stick cheese just now.
No marriage is perfect, but man, it’s nice not to have to get every single stick cheese and milk refill. It’s nice to have someone to laugh at my witty and snarky comments while watching reality TV. And I never feel closer with my husband than when we are looking at the sleeping humans we made together.
Welcome home, honey. Thanks for letting me sleep in. It’s wonderful to have you back.