Husband asked me this morning, very tentatively indeed, whether it would be o.k. for him to go out for a beer with a good friend of his Friday or Saturday night. "Sure," I said. "That's alright." I suppressed a big, self-pitying sigh and a comment to the effect that "I wish I could go out with my friends and have a beer." Pats on the back for me, right?
Husband surprised me the other night during one of our rare, uninterrupted conversations by telling me that he was feeling pretty...occupied these days. Like he has no free time anymore, never gets to just hang around the house reading the paper or doing yardwork if he wants or going to a show or whatever. He's just too busy, he told me. I guess I was surprised because I hadn't figured that it works both ways, y'know? I mean, he actually gets to leave the house 5 days a week which I envy most sharply some days, but sometimes I forget he's going to work. And as much as I feel like I've been over-the-top busy with both childcare and the hundreds of small tasks related to getting ready to move lately, he's been doing a lot, too. And feeling stressed about it apparently. Who'da thunk it?
My response to him was comforting, I hope. I told him that we were in the throes of the busiest time of our lives as the parents of young children. It wouldn't always be this crazy and this loud and this busy. I try to tell myself that sometimes, too. That I'll have time to lay around with the paper and a bottomless cup of coffee again one of these days, but now is not that time. And here's where a better woman than me would end with a platitude about how I'll miss it when it's over, but I can't bring myself to say that. It could be true, but that leisure time looks like paradise from where we're sitting right now.