Wednesday, 19 September 2012

Polar Opposites

Sometimes I think Mister Husband would like to kill me.  Or if not kill me (coz then he’d be locked up and our kids would be orphans) but do me a great damage.  And sometimes I think he’d be well within his rights. Sometimes the wagon is not wonderful.  Far from it. Sometimes the wagon is a total and utter fucking bitch.  There, from the horses mouth herself.  I’m not talking about that time of the month.  We’re all allowed that time of the month. (We so are!)  And a few other times too.  Like when we are utterly sleep deprived and ranting rabid messes, liable to say anything.  Like when we are riddled with hormones due to pregnancy or breastfeeding and have little insane moments.  Like when we have been in the company of the kids all day; they are tired, we are tired and we just need ten minutes to ourselves with no-one at us, either touching off us or talking to us.  Like when we need serious body and mind space.  Those times.  Those are the freebie bitches.  The I am entitled times.  I’m talking about the times when I know he is frustrated with me, when I annoy him, when I am stubborn, in bad form, spoiling for a fight, when I push him away both literally and figuratively, when I am stroppy and being the aforementioned bitch, sometimes I wonder how different his life would be if he married someone else. They say opposites attract.  Lucky for us because Mister Husband and I are polar opposites.  From the very beginning we had different thoughts and feelings on everything.  I loved an impromptu stop off at a beer garden after work on a Friday evening.  Mister husband preferred a pint inside the pub.  Mister Husband likes jazz and moaney hole singers.  I love a boogie and if it is to 80’s music, I am in heaven.  Mister Husband smokes and I still hate it.  He was a big dirty ale drinker and liked to finish up with a whiskey chaser whereas I was fond of a bottle of American beer. Mister Husband wanted to get married and have kids.  The sooner the better and the more the merrier.  I dug my doc martin heels in. Mister Husband wanted to build a house and I wanted to stay in Dublin for the rest of my life.   Mister Husband is spontaneous and used to think nothing of taking off on the spur of the moment.  I am a lover of routine and like to know what to expect as much as is possible.  He likes to see the good in people but I think I am naturally suspicious.  Mister Husband is an idealist and I am too much of a realist.  He likes to take the odd chance.  I don’t.  If I am in bad form, I find it hard to hide it.  He doesn’t.  It’s been a long time, December 2011, I think, for my birthday, since we went out together.  Just the two of us. He keeps suggesting a meal and I keep saying ok but not doing anything about it.    In fact, the last time we were out together, was for his sisters 40th birthday celebrations in June.  This bothers him.  I can live with it.  Wrongly I think.  I think it should bother me.  But it doesn’t.  I am always too tired and I don’t want to take someone’s weekend night on them by asking them to watch the kids for us. I am aware this is just an excuse.  I have fallen into the “I couldn’t be bothered” rut.   He loves to go out and unwind over a pint and a chat in the pub at the weekend.  I prefer a meal and then home.  Failing that, I’d settle for getting the sitting room to myself for a few hours or going to bed at 8pm with a coffee and a book.  Mister Husband enjoys swimming.  He likes to swim up and down up and down, doing his lengths and allowing his thoughts to meld together.  I love to pound the road in blissful solitude, ear buds plugged in with music drowning out my thoughts.  Mister Husband wants an orchard and vegetable garden and I want the whole lot tarmacked over so the kids can use their bicycles.    Mister Husband loves the idea of being self-sufficient, growing our own food and eating it. He thinks it would be fantastic if we could make our own jams and chutneys. I despise cooking so much, having to do it is starting to give me an ulcer.  Sometimes I wonder does he realise he didn’t get what he signed up for that day in the church when he wrote his name on the dotted line?  The priest who married us also married his parents.  This was important to Mister Husband.  It was also important to him that we marry in a church, promise ourselves to each other before god.  I didn’t care too much either way. I certainly wasn’t doing it before god.  For me it was in front of our family and friends.  At our reception, Mister Husband walked the floor all night; he was the genial host with the most.  His wife?  I tied a knot in my dress and danced a hole in the floor in my bare feet. On our honeymoon I came down with a rotten cold and spent the first week bitching and moaning that I couldn’t breathe or taste anything.  His first married taste of for better or worse.  He has been to America a few times and loved it.  I have no desire to visit.  He loved Saving Private Ryan.  I spent those 25 hours counting the tiles on the ceiling. Sometimes when I play “what if,” I wonder “what if” he had married someone who enjoys messing about in the kitchen, inventing something different to put on the table of an evening for her family.  Someone who doesn’t forget to take the damn meat out of the freezer the night before and cooks yet another batch of drop scones for dinner as a result.  Would things be easier for him if he had found someone who was totally fulfilled being a mother, looking after her brood, content to wait till they are grown and fly the coop before she looks for an interest for herself.  Someone who doesn’t get frustrated at having to put her own interests on hold until such a time as the kids are older.  Someone who shares all of his interests and has both ears fully tuned in at all times.  Someone who doesn’t need so much time to herself. Someone who knows, at least half of the time, what she actually does want.  So if you see the following headline in an evening paper, Body Found in Wicklow Mountains, and it turns out to be me, go easy on him.  For our kids’ sake. 

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