There’s a certain calm that descends over the homes of families with young children. It doesn’t always happen, so that when it does, it is even more precious and guarded.
It’s a time when tired mums do something for themselves.
What that something is, changes from woman to woman. Some use it to catch up on neglected housework… Or tv.
Others read or sew or crochet.
Some enjoy an uninterrupted phone conversation with
centrelink a good friend.
Whatever it is, it is an important, integral time of the mothering process.
It’s called nap time.
Unless Boatman is home.
Now don’t get me wrong; I love my husband. Absolutely adore him. Spending time with him is awesome.
But I have a very small window of time in my day for me. A time when I try to cram in lunch, blog reading and some exercise.
Being asked to make someone else lunch, deter romantic advances, or discuss anything is precious minutes
wasted used for something else, and means my step aerobics/tv viewing times is destined to be interrupted with ‘can we come out now?’ about 70 times.
This does not make me a happy camper.
Thankfully, I seem to have taken care of this little problem forever.
On Tuesday, Boatman, knowing my aversion to being interrupted, sent me a text message asking if he could come home for lunch, as he had left it at home. (I’m a terrible wife aren’t I?)
I obliged, happy to see him
for once, and home he came for the left overs of his Bolognese.
We were happily chatting in the kitchen. I got the plates out, he toasted his bread, and warmed the sauce, and I cut up my salad.
Lunch was served, I went and got drinks and sat down next to him; he had already started eating, keen to
get back to work not distract me for too long.
Thankfully, I had not started eating yet.
I suggest that you not be eating right now.
He was about three bites in, when he stopped suddenly, staring intently at the plate.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t think this plate was cleaned,” he said.
I immediately started calculating the logical correctness of this statement, trying to think how it was possible.
Then came the next bit.
“Oh no, it was cleaned….. By the dog!”
“What? No, it can’t be?”
“Yep, oh that’s disgusting!”
He was up and disposing of lunch, looking for some sort of antiseptic to wash out his mouth.
“Are you sure?” I asked, still trying to work out how my housekeeping had allowed such a thing to happen. Honestly, I’m not in the habit of getting the dog to help with the dishes.
“Oh……. Well you know, they say a dogs mouth is actually very clean….”
“Do you remember yesterday when we saw her chowing down on …….?”
I’m not even going to write it. Suffice to say the memory alone was enough to make me dry retch and almost throw my own lunch away.
Not helped by the fact that, Boatman, feeling jipped that he got the dog-cleaned plate, decided it was completely necessary to provide a commentary of really disgusting things while I ate.
Thankfully, three days later, boatman has not died from Salmonella or any other food poisoning, all dishes have been scrubbed thoroughly and put away clean, (we think Ava had taken a plate of scraps to the dog and then put the plate away for us), and I have secured a life time of uninterrupted quiet times.
All is right in the world again.
Now I’m not suggesting that you try and poison your husband, not at all. But if he is in the habit of ‘popping home’ during your time, maybe you could tell him the urban legend of the dog-cleaned plate.
Then you too, can enjoy nap time alone forevermore.