Bustling
Right, I’m baring my soul here (I said SOUL, keep it clean, people), which I do on a regular basis and which rarely fails to get me into some sort of trouble. Even though I’m blessed with this form of self-awareness it doesn’t seem to stop the words come tumbling out of my mouth (or, in this case, through the keyboard) so I’ll just let you all say ‘I told you so’ now and get it out of the way.
Here goes, then, with the double whammy. My lovely funny, cheeky, naughty, short of fuse but huge of heart Hubby’s got to go away. No, he’s not leaving me or anything (oh, I hadn’t thought of that, but no, he booked a return ticket, I checked) but still I face a considerable amount of time on my ownsome. I’m not very happy about it, in fact I’m downright miserable about it, but I realise it’s important in that career-furthering/investment in the future/for the greater good yada yada yada kind of way.
And, just as bad, J: my NBF, partner in long-giggly-telephone-conversation crime, queen of the flippant text conversation and my champagne drinking buddy is moving away too. Not a million miles away, admittedly, but to a different county and a new and exciting stage in the life of her and her sweetie and lovely boy, which I wish her well for but would secretly like to sabotage so she stays near to me (mwah ha ha). J, the evil laugh/sabotage bit was just a joke by the way.
So, in that most typical way that is patented by us females, I’m covering this veritable explosion of emotions by bustling. Oh yes, bustling about pretending to be important and busy can hide a multitude of sins. So, there has been an exceptional amount of Hoover usage, the bathroom floor has been mopped, all the bills which have been gathering on the kitchen work surface for the last six months have been filed, and I’ve made a list of everybody’s birthday so I can buy a year’s worth of cards next time I go shopping.
My Mum’s coming today, which is very good, and which will divert me from my impending single motherhood (God, that’s another thing, I won’t be able to say ‘just wait ’til your father gets home’ for ages). We can bustle together. In fact, I think I probably inherited the bustling thing from her in the first place.
So. Am I worried about Hubby going away? Nah, I’m busy polishing the fireplace. Am I concerned that I’m just slightly terrified of the dark and that the house goes click and creak in the night? Nah, the bathroom needs doing again. Will I miss…er… you know that Husbandy/Wifey stuff that you can’t mention on a family blog? Nah, I’m ironing my underwear.
And here’s the bit that’ll get me in trouble, because he’ll tell me off, or someone he knows will read it and he’ll be all embarrassed or whatever, but Hubby, I’ll miss you every second, every minute, every hour until we’re back together and you’re here where you belong with me and our lovely boys. But hey, look on the bright side; the bathroom’ll be spotless.
