Hubby is home for a few extra weeks, so it’s time for us to get back into a partner-parenting groove. (Hooray!)
These last few two and two cycles have sucked. Numerous home repairs, work issues, and testy kids have made for a rough spring. So I’m happy that things are settling down as we move into the summer months.
With Hubby at home, I don’t have to race out of the office while praying for clear traffic. He takes care of daycare pickups, homework, and dinner. When the girls have simultaneous meltdowns, we divide and conquer. I must admit the meltdowns are much less frequent now that Daddy’s home; the kids are overjoyed to have him around. (Especially the little one — I swear she is his carbon copy.)
My house is good shape. The grass it cut. That pesky tree branch that hits me in the head every time I walk Mini Me to the bus stop is trimmed. The Christmas lights from 2012 are gone. (No, this is not a typo. Those lights were up for more than a year.) The bathroom sink is unclogged. My car finally stopped sputtering like a 1910 Model T thanks to six new spark plugs and an oil change.
Life is good.
Yesterday, I enjoyed a sputter-free drive to a my book club meeting. I’ve gathered with this group every month for the past 15 years. We’ve supported each other through job changes, marriages, births, and loss of loved ones. Along the way, we’ve read a collection of good, not-so-good, and downright awful books.
My friend had us laughing as she stated her plan to cook for herself this week because it was her husband’s turn to manage dinner for himself and their kids. She explained that if she wasn’t interested in what her Hubs had prepared, she’d just make something else. It didn’t work the other way around, though. Whenever she cooks, everyone in the house has the same dinner. They reached this arrangement a while ago, she said, and it works just fine for them.
I started thinking about how Hubby and I handle situations differently. Things that seem so important to me go unnoticed by him. For example, Hubby took the kids to see his mom while I was at book club. Mini Me, who’s nine years old, was wearing the same set of pajamas she had on when I left the house.
“Did you wear your PJs to Grandmas?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Grandma didn’t mind.”
Normally, I would be miffed. Who takes their big kid out in pajamas?
But really, what does it matter in the grand scheme of things? No one, not even me, is going to remember that my kid wore pajamas to her grandma’s house on a random Sunday in May. Our girls are happy and healthy. They got to spend time with their dad. I was able to hang with friends for a while. Our partner-parenting groove is working.
So instead of fussing, I kissed Mini Me on her forehead and told her I was glad she had a good time.
Like I said — life is good.