There comes a point in your marriage, when you come to the realisation that you can only really get away with calling each other a cunt once or twice a month. Any more than that and you are pushing your luck. Any more than that and you’re risking divorce and what can be referred to as a ‘domestic dispute’.
We can’t be having any divorces or domestic altercations, we now live in a terribly middle class village and are trying our utmost to fit in. And by fit in, I mean go completely unnoticed and not participate in anything. I just want to drink wine and wear pyjamas, I don’t give a shit about your running club, Susan.
We’ve been here two months now and apart from a small complaint with regards to our new soundbar (we got a bit overexcited with The Jungle Book Blu-ray) we are flying gloriously under the radar.
So no fights for us. Boo hoo.
Anyway this crucial point in our marriage came to us last Monday night. It had not been a great day, it had started at 6am as usual, it was dark and cold and a week of horrendous stress lay before us both. The washing machine had been broken since Wednesday, the odds of anyone having clean underwear were slim. The house was a tip, a cat had vommed on the stairs. I had to leave by 7.30am at the latest to drive a good hour to even get to work and my husband had to wrestle our son to my parents whilst answering phone calls and scanning emails.
Every morning is intensely stressful in this manner, I often could have killed my entire family before 7am.
But anyway, we muddled through as always and off we went to spend eight hours working our arses off.
So we do that – the working all day thing and then at 5 o’clock I get up from
the floor my desk to start making my way home.
Its Monday I’m not on pick up duty – I’m on get home, wash up and cook dinner duty. I’ve got £10 worth of petrol and Mariah Carey’s Greatest Hits, I’m feeling optimistic.
Except it takes me one hour and twenty minutes to get almost home. The almost being when my husband informs me he has to work late.
Not his fault, logically I know this. But Jesus “what a cunt!!” I scream inside my Citreon “why didn’t he say ten minutes ago when I could have taken Junction fucking 7!!!”.
I turn around, I go back the way I’ve already been to pick up the urchin. I swap Mariah for Beyonce, shit just got real.
I arrive at my parents, oh they’ve all had such a fabulous day! Sprinklers and garden centres and dippy eggs – how glorious! I resist the urge to slam my head up against the hall mirror.
Now begins the saga of trying to get him out of there. “Chase me Mummy!” he shouts as he runs off up the garden. He doesn’t want to leave, of course he doesn’t he’s had a fucking fabulous time! Why would he want to leave them and go home with you?
You’re always exhausted and shouting at everyone.
I bribe him to the car with the promise of a Freddo. It’s now gone 7 o’clock, I’ve been driving for two hours I have no idea how to make good choices.
We get home. No husband, no idea of ETA – I start to feel sorry for him, he’s now been at work for ten hours.
Then the child punches me squarely in the left tit because he doesn’t want a bath and I figure my husband is an absolute selfish bastard for doing this to me and I open a bottle of wine.
I run the fucking bath and we negotiate the hair wash down to just a rinse. Kids don’t sweat right?
Still no husband. I am in no mind to read a bedtime story. We go back downstairs to watch Netflix. This is a terrible sin against my entire parenting ethos but I have gone rogue, wild even – I just want to survive, at this point I no longer care what’s best for my child.
Three Paw Patrols later my husband comes home.
I give him the look.
He’s fucking shattered. But I’m a bitch beyond it now and I don’t care.
Right on cue, our son empties the entire contents of his toy box onto the floor.
I throw my hands in the air, my voice goes all shaky and they both look terrified “That’s it, I can’t cope anymore! I’m going to bed!”
Some people would call this a breaking point.
I stomp upstairs to bed, it’s like nine o’clock or something ridiculous.
The child appears in the doorway, all gorgeous and concerned
“Are you not feeling well Mummy?”
This is the moment I know somethings got to change, I’m a terrible person. A terrible shitty, shitty person. Who shouts and stomps off to my room like a thirteen year old.
I start apologising profusely. He jumps on my lap, looks up at me with those big blue eyes and farts like a filth wizard.
I laugh out loud.
My husband reads him a bedtime story, whilst I pour a second glass of wine and cook an absolute crap bomb of a dinner.
Domesticated bliss, my friends.
The next day I’m offered a part time job, which I interviewed for over a week ago.
We both react like we’ve won the lottery and rejoice in this amazing turn of events.
And we all live happily ever after.