When we went into lockdown I remember acknowledging a fleeting moment of relief that I like my husband.
I wonder how many people have decided to divorce some time over the last 46 days. How many engaged couples have called off their weddings. How many people’s illicit affairs have been brought to an abrupt halt - or moved onto Zoom (perish the thought).
Or - on a slightly more optimistic note - how many fighting couples have rekindled their relationship while forced to spend all this time together.
Thankfully Andy and I don’t fall into any of these brackets. (I’m arrogantly assuming he’s not conducting an affair over Zoom but only because the wifi is very weak upstairs and he’s certainly not doing it in the kitchen alongside KS1 Maths lessons.)
Yesterday, as we marked 46 days in lockdown, we also marked eight years of marriage. Eight years since we donned our finery and promised to forsake all others, no matter how rich, poor, sick or healthy, until one of us popped it.
We marked the occasion in true lockdown style - a ‘thank you’ card from him, ransacked from my card stash, and a half bottle of Nyetimber once the kids were in bed. In honour of the occasion we even pushed the boat right out and had dinner at the kitchen table alone rather than with the kids or in front of the TV.
And as a special treat he took the kids out for a walk so I could try and hit some work deadlines.
It feels a bit surreal to have been married for eight years. And to have been a couple for 16. I feel a bit of a fraud. In my head I’m barely a grown up but in reality I have a husband, a house and three children. But - and I guess this is the secret to a successful marriage - it doesn’t feel like eight years.
Sure, we’ve been busy creating three rather time consuming distractions from our own company, but there’s nothing that adds pressure to a relationship quite like the combination of sleepless nights, weight gain, zero time alone, little spare cash and the realisation you have voluntarily bred three little terrorists who own you for the next 18 years.
So it is with some relief that I find myself 46 days into legally enforceable confinement, and 2,922 days into a legally binding contract, still quite enjoying his company.
I occasionally have to pinch myself that anyone would tolerate me enough to agree to spend the rest of their life with me.
I’m a control freak so insist on doing everything myself then getting really moody when I’ve had to do everything myself.
I’m insanely bossy. I have a group of friends who call me Brown Owl because I can’t handle endless ‘don’t minds’ so just organise everyone like a little dictator.
I swear like a sailor.
I hoard newspapers that I insist on buying despite knowing I won’t have time to read them then refuse to throw them out.
I only wash my hair twice a week.
But then I guess this is a two way street.
He won’t take his hayfever tablets so, from early April, he sneezes all evening.
He gets in from a run and sits on the good sofa without changing.
He whips the kids up into a frenzy of hilarity approximately 35 seconds before bedtime.
He can’t butter bread properly.
He never, ever looks at the shared digital calendar he insists I keep. And asks what we’re doing at the weekend several times in a week because he wasn’t listening the first few times.
Whenever we go to a social gathering I have to run through the names of everybody’s children in the car on the way there. Our NCT meet-ups, which include 16 children, are a true test of my rapid memory recall.
But.
He listens to my convoluted but ultimately very boring stories.
He agreed to having a third baby, and then when I had a month-long panic attack a short time after falling pregnant, he didn’t freak out.
He deals with all the household finances so I never, ever have to confront my dyscalculia.
He's supported us all through three maternity leaves and always encourages me to pursue my ambitions, however pie in the sky, be it setting up my own business or writing a book, even though I haven’t earned any consistent money for bloody ages.
And (he’ll kill me for this one) he can’t go to sleep at night without ‘love you’ being the last thing he says. So sometimes I leave it a bit then say something pointless so he has to respond, pause, then say ‘love you’ again.
I honestly don’t know how or why he puts up with me but, aside from the vows we made in church eight years ago, we have a mutual understanding that neither of us can handle the kids alone so we’re stuck with each other, lockdown or not.
Thanks Wraggles. Here’s to several more years annoying each other.
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