It took me a decade and a half to realise that my marriage was much like those gym memberships everyone buys in Januarybursting with good intentions at first, then echoingly empty the rest of the year.
It all began on a completely ordinary Tuesday. I came in from work to find him sprawled out on the settee, hand submerged in a family-sized bag of crisps, watching yet againthird run, I thinksome series with undead shuffling through suburban streets.
What about tea? he asked, not looking away from the flickering screen.
Something in me snapped, like resetting an old computer back to its original settings.
I dont know, darling. What about tea? I replied, dropping my handbag.
He blinked up at me, baffled, as though Id started speaking Sanskrit.
What do you mean, you dont know? You always cook.
Do I, now? Fascinating observation. Well, Im out for dinner with the girls latersee you.
His face was a work of poetry. More of a haiku, really. Brief, but very much to the point.
That evening I ate grilled fish, sipped white wine, and laughed till my ribs hurt. I came home around eleven. Hed ordered takeaway pizza; the children were beside themselves with joy.
Mum, why dont we have tea like this more often? the younger one asked, tomato sauce daubed on her nose.
The following week, I stepped things up a notch. Literally.
Im off to Greece this Friday, I announced over breakfast.
He nearly choked on his tea.
Greece? What about the kids?
Theyll be with you. You are their father, arent you? I believe in you.
But Ive meetings! Work!
I looked him straight in the eye.
Well, funnily enough, Ive had my own important meetings for the past fifteen years. Yet somehow, I managed. Im sure your brilliant mind, as youre so fond of calling it, can handle it.
So I left. Aloneor technically with a relative, but that hardly matters.
Day one, I received seventeen messages:
Where are the PE kits?
How do I work the washing machine?
Does pasta go in cold or boiling water?
Is it alright to give them cereal for tea?
I only replied to one:
Google is your friend.
By day three, the messages shifted tone:
The kids want chicken dippers again.
Do they always have this much homework?
Why are there so many parents evenings?
I didnt answer. I was too busy drinking icy frappé by the sea and reading a novel, uninterrupted.
When I came home, the house looked post-apocalyptic. Socks on the ceilingstill a mystery how they got up therethe dog parading around with a sock on his head like a tiny woolly crown, and my daughter had redecorated her room in purple, using my lipsticks.
He was curled on the settee, foetal, wide-eyed.
Youre back, he croaked. Thank God.
How was it? I asked, sun-kissed and serene.
I dont understand How do you do this every day? Its inhuman.
Almost like working full-time, isnt it?
He went quiet. Somewhere, the zombies on TV moaned. He joined in.
Im sorry, he whispered at last. Truly.
Things changed after that. He learned three half-decent recipeswell, two and a bit, since the spaghetti is still occasionally crunchy. Now he knows where the washing machine is, how the parents evenings work, and that Whats for tea? isnt a valid question unless hes cooking.
I began travelling every three months. Sometimes solo, sometimes with friends. Always without guilt.
Last week, the neighbour eyed me wide-eyed over the fence:
Do you really just leave the children with your husband and swan off?
Absolutely, I confirmed. Hes their father, not the babysitter.
But what if something goes wrong?
Then hell learn. The same way I did, when I was left to cope while he attended important meetings that finished down the pub.
She looked thoughtful. I saw her at the airport a month later, off to Italy.
Turns out, karma isnt always vengeful. Sometimes shes a patient schoolmistress, giving you the lessons you should have learned ages ago. And if you dont learn them the kind wayshell put you in an intensive course on reality.
Now, he boasts to his mates that he can plait our daughters hair. They look more like sailors knots, but points for effort.
Last night he asked me, Going anywhere soon? Just so I can brace myself.
Im thinking Portugal for my birthday.
He sighed, resigned.
How many days?
Ten.
Right. At least now I know where the first aid kit is.
I kissed him on the forehead, the way you encourage a brave child off to get their jab.
Am I the only one who thinks there should be a compulsory course in Domestic Survival 101 before getting married, or are there others like me out there, too?
