Our “talk to me” fight raises its ugly head every once in a while. And to avoid being tuned out by my husband, I even resorted to sending an email to his office to get his attention.
I got taken out for lunch after I sent it to him; I got the attention I craved - for a week. And if, like so many other women, you find yourself nodding your head and saying “ditto”, do make the words your own.
May you find yourself a longer attention span than I could manage…
Here is the letter.
Let me bop you on the head and remind you I exist.
Yes, it was a while ago that I used to get five calls at the office. And the times when we used to gossip about our day at work, our family, and dreamt dreams together. We talked about where we could go on Sundays, what were the new restaurants and who we could call home for dinner.
Sure, there was excitement in setting up our home together; fun in choosing drapes, in setting up the kitchen, in finding the money and the right designs for the new furniture.
We could go any place, including where children below 18 years are not allowed.
Agreed, all of it was five years, twenty kilos and two babies ago.
But, let me ask you to call home once in a while to talk to me. Instead of calling a friend to discuss something that has caught your attention. Instead of calling home to find out what your daughter has to say about her school picnic. And whether your son has had his hair cut. Or to merely let me know whether you will be home for lunch, or not home, for dinner.
Let me remind you there are still dreams to be dreamt, holiday destinations unexplored, and new restaurants to check out. And there are conversations to be made beyond commercial break time and beyond whether I should heat up dinner.
Yes, now it is the kids that mob you as you walk in through the door.
But let me remind you that they are not yet so big that you can’t greet me over their heads. Let me remind you that soon the kids WILL be too big and then there will be only me.
No, I am not asking you to get the candles and the roses out to romance me. Your children will choose that moment to ask you to feed them/change them/ swing them up in the air/ sit on your lap/ switch on the cartoon channel.
I know you care; you show it to me in many little ways and a few big ways too. But do, once a day, TELL me that I am more than ayah, housekeeper, teacher, doctor, laundrywalla, dinner-heater and mother.
Your flat mate
A.K.A Your Wife
P.S - See, I haven’t even mentioned TV.