I love being a (mostly) stay-at-home mum.
I really do. I’m in my element at home with my son. Before we had kids, this option didn’t seem within the realm of possibility for me.
When we surprisingly were able to find a way to make it work, I considered myself very fortunate. It’s not a position I take for granted any day, and I constantly look at my working-mum friends in awe, wondering how they manage to do it all.
But.
But.
Being at home with a so far non-verbal (yet very vocal!) toddler for company can sometimes drive me a liiiiiittle bit batty.
I mean, I have a threshold for the number of times I can play hide and seek in the tepee. Or read half a picture book before my son gets bored with it. And listen to his piano concerts (complete with a joyful wail that I think is his version of singing). All while distracting him from noticing that there are kids in the park across the road (because then the fact that he is not playing in the park across the road becomes a crime against humanity!). And that threshold is met around the same time that I’m trying to cook dinner and pick up toys and clean sippy cups and bring in washing and OK, steal a glimpse at Facebook.
So the moment my husband walks through the door at the end of the day is EXHILARATING. Hello, fellow adult human! You are welcome in this place!
Is it just me, or do you find that when you’re anticipating something, time just passes slowly? I mean, we’re talking snail pace here. Checking the clock constantly, each time baffled that only four minutes have passed, when you were sure if had been at least fifteen? Thinking to yourself; “As soon as [insert anticipated event] happens, life will begin,” as you wring your hands and feel your heart pound? Trying to distract yourself from fixating on the anticipated event by wondering things like “Does Jimmy Giggle ever wash those yellow pyjamas he always seems to be wearing?” Elated when you check the clock again and half the time has finally passed and the end of this excruciating wait is *sort of* within sight?
Yeah? You feel me?
That is the hour before my husband gets home from work. Erryday.
They say the years pass quickly, but the days pass slowly. I would like to add an addendum that the hour before my husband gets home from work is the very slowest of all the hours. Someone should bottle this and apply it to the hour when my kid takes his afternoon nap. Or the hour before the alarm clock wakes me in the morning, you know, places where it would be really appreciated!
Being a parent is all kinds of awesome, but my favourite times are when my husband and I can be parents together and I’m not flying the plane alone. Yes, I’m a very capable pilot, and if I need to, I can take off, zoom around, do some loop-de-loops and safely land all by myself. But damn, it’s just nice to have a co-pilot. And I know some people aren’t fortunate enough to have that co-pilot, and seriously, my hat goes off to them. Threshold or not, they just have to keep on going. I count myself seriously lucky that I do have a co-pilot who is a great husband and an amazing Dad.
And so, the hour before my husband gets home from work is a time of anxious anticipation which peaks with extreme gratefulness when we spot his car pulling into the driveway. The dogs go wild, my son bounces and chuckles, and as he opens the door and steps into the house, I always greet him with a warm, loving smile and say “I’m glad you’re home. Now take the child.”
