Last night I went for a few drinks with my work colleagues for an end of term get together. I offered to take the kids, but hubby said to leave them home with him.
In a euphoric state I left the house, skipping down the path to the local, I could be me for an hour (or so), what fun!
Of course, when enjoying ourselves, time tends to slip away and before I knew it I had been gone longer than the said hour, I decided to have one last quick drink, then the phone rings.
Supposedly the baby needed me, was time for bed, so dutifully I down my drink and power-walk back down the path to home. I arrive to a crying baby, a three year old who “needed me” and a husband with a frown on his face.
I grab baby and take him off to his room, before long miss 3 pops her head in and asks if I’m going to cook dinner, and master 1, descends from my lap and heads back toward the kitchen.
Now I left a partially prepared dinner in the fridge, but I didn’t actually say to husband ‘cook dinner’. So I switch into cook mode, bang the rice in the microwave, throw the schnitzels in the pan, dish some salad onto plates and in 15 minutes have 2 happy kids and a content husband sitting at the table. Half hour after that master 1 is asleep and miss 3 is ready to read a book, and hubby is smiling again with his belly full.
My mind is ticking, I wonder, why is it when hubby says he’ll be home at 6 (and manages to crawl into bed at 2) the kids are fed, tucked up asleep and his evening meal is ready in the fridge, and I am still smiling? Oh that’s right, I enjoy my quiet time, with control of the remote, and the way he comes home sharing funny stories of his night out, just as much as I love a night out being me.