The OH (Other Half) returned from his sojourn into ‘married bachelorhood’ yesterday morning, 125 days after he left.
I’m sure everyone is imagining a reunion like you’d see in the movies.
I would be all dressed up (a dress, stocking, heels, makeup!), with a tear hanging prettily from my lower eye lashes, peering from the curtains longingly, as I anticipate the taxi driving along our street. The Missies would be beautifully coiffed and dressed in designer gear, quietly playing a board game while they await their father’s return. Husband would appear from a taxi wearing a suit, freshly shaved and clutching a a bunch of flowers. The camera would switch from me to him and back again as we move toward each other before flinging ourselves at each other and kissing passionately. It would be dramatic, with a appropriate music playing in the back ground.
Here’s the reality: he arrived home at 7.45am on a Sunday morning wearing jeans and a t-shirt that he’d been wearing for 30 hours. It was pissing down. The Missies and I were all in our pyjamas (the Little Missy opted for PJ pants only), although I had brushed my teeth and slicked my bed-hair into a top knot. Big Missy and I were playing her DS in bed when we heard the taxi doors slam, we rushed to the front door where the Missies immediately swamped him with love, kisses and all the little stories they had been saving up to tell Daddy. I stood back, helped him get his bags in the door and eventually gave each other a normal “How was your day, dear?” style kiss. Then I asked if he wanted a coffee. It was low key, with Nick Junior blaring the background.
Am I relieved he is home? Happy? Overjoyed?
I just feel ‘right’. It feels normal. Like a comfy pair of jarmies.
Oh, and it was our 12th wedding anniversary and he gave me a sparkly diamond ring.