What do you do when your wife, the woman you ‘obtained’ is unobtainable? 

My wife is a babe. She’s hot, in a ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not hot’ sort of way.

She isn’t the woman I married, nor is she the woman I met. All those many years ago. My wife has changed and adapted, both personally and physically, as the years, and children, have piled up. Her views have broadened, her horizons. So have other things.

My wife is an intelligent, smart, clever, educated and well rounded women. The latter, in more ways than one. (okay, I’ll stop labouring that point, before I get in trouble). I challenge any one to think she isn’t a hot tamale. She is the main bread winner. Cooks and bakes. Is clean, tidy and hygienic. A great mother and a good friend to her children. She is funny, witty and challenging. All the while looking the part.

So given all the above, how am I supposed to reconcile the idea that I get to sample only a small slice of the package she presents?

My wife works full time. She is also on call twenty four hours a day. A hard worker and dedicated member of the community. A hands on Mum, still breast feeding.

There are four kids in this household. Two dogs. Not sure why I mentioned the dogs, but they do add to the mix somehow. By the time the basics are done, the cooking and the cleaning and the cleaning up after the kids have helped with the cleaning, everyone is tired. Well, that is the theory.

The ideal, that there is some sort of watershed hour, a time past which children no longer intervene, is a wish yet to come true. More often than not, the little two in particular, set their own agenda. I have tried to propose an arbitrary time of 8pm. Half eight at the latest. Beyond that hour, or part thereof, not a peep should be heard from the lips of anyone under the age of say…sixteen. Which in this household, leaves me and the Mrs. Heaven forbid a little creature would be bold enough, read stupid, to venture back down the stairs after the cut-off.

That’s the ideal. Bollocks isn’t it? But you knew that.

I just want to cuddle my wife. Directly.  Not reach and strain to get my stumpy limbs around another form, just to get my equally stumpy fingers on my wife’s flesh. I love my Wee-Man, but get off my wife.

Sometimes I picture the scene. It is an every day one. Or rather, every evening. Kids don’t even feature in this vision. Perhaps they are already tucked up in bed, sound asleep. Perhaps they are off on holiday, staying with a Nana, or a Granddad. Perhaps, in this vision, they never existed.

Perhaps, seeing as we are being fanciful, the wife and I have settled to watch a Western (my favourite genre). We had something spicy for dinner, we are sipping a wine and have no fear of getting inebriated. It doesn’t matter, in my vision, if we cannot be roused from our slumber, by the cries of children in the throes of a nightmare, or not.

My wife’s body will be close against mine. I will have my arms around her, she will be embracing me. It will be loving and cosy and cute and charming and all the things it used to be.

Who knows…it might lead to something. Just not another bloody kid!

Between the work my wife does, and the children she has had, the age she has reached (dangerous territory again I know) the energy is sapped out of her before I even get a look in. The vitality, the verve and vigour. Sometimes she brings the stresses and pressures of work home with her. Nothing a glass of wine doesn’t fix, but it can be hard to watch and makes me realise, she was once on the receiving end.

for me, with the wife working, I have learnt a lot and I deeply appreciate the opportunity. I can cook. Not just bang some odds and ends together, stick in a pot on a medium heat and fifteen minutes later call it a meal. I mean I can really cook. Plan, prepare and make a meal, start to finish. I hate it and I love it all in one.

I hate the stress of cooking. I still struggle with the timing. I love the appreciative feedback when I get it right. First silence, not a word spoken as gobs are filled, food swallowed and the process rapidly repeated. Then the praise. Head-swelling and heart-warming.

There is heaps I don’t get right, according to her standards. I have developed and practiced and gotten better in some areas. She has learnt to let go in others. Some things she just does again when she thinks I am not looking. All in an effort to relieve her stresses and the added attention thrown at her by the little ‘uns when she walks in the door.

There are ways I can relieve her stresses. Ways that have nothing to do with little ones. With chores or food. Well, maybe a little bit to do with food…who knows, if you ask nicely.

But what with the ways of a busy, modern family, I sometimes think maybe in the asking, I am simply adding to the pressure. The asking, the cajoling, the hinting and the winking and the nudging, and if it has been long enough, the touching, feeling and groping. Seriously, I can be a charmer, but so often there is little or no time for that type of carry on.

I want my wife. The thing is, so does everyone else.










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