GETTING my Bloke back this week, for a fortnight anyway. He’s been working in Edinburgh for the past couple of months and so we’ve only had him home for weekends.
It’s been a bit like being a single mum, without the emotional trauma and reduction in income.
Or a Forces wife, without the anguish and concern for his safety. I do worry, every Monday and Friday, when he’s getting on trains and planes. Not quite the same as worrying about him stepping on an Improvised Explosive Device or shot by friendly fire.
Being on your own with four kids is fun but knackering. It’s also pretty lonely. You miss having someone to talk to, and you can’t really go out on your own. I can never really justify the cost of a babysitter just for me.
The last few months without Bloke have been weird for us all. Our eldest said he was seeing less of his Dad than his friends whose parents were divorced, but without the extra presents. The novelty of living in hotels wore off for Bloke after about a fortnight.
The most annoying thing for me is having to put the bins out. I might cope with all the rest but it’s HIS job. And he does it with ruthless Man efficiency.
I wake up at 2am when I finally remember they need doing, clatter around the house collecting what needs to be put out and shuffle out into the street in my dressing-gown, clutching smelly black bags and cursing under my breath.
At least we’re all back together for the next fortnight. Bin duty reinstated. Someone to yak to about everything and nothing. Order restored.
He’ll be desperate to get back to work.