My husband walked through the door and greeted our children with open arms as they ran to him.
He then stood up and gave me a hello peck on the lips and a lacklustre, “Hi”. I asked about his day. He said, “Good”. I give him some time to decompress after a long day of working and commuting instead of launching into an excitable, solo-parenting word vomit.
During dinner, I carefully ask his opinion on a tile I had been looking at for our house renovation. He says, “Yeah” and not much else.
I tell him a cute anecdote about something funny our son said earlier today. He musters a smile before taking his phone out of his pocket and mindlessly scrolling through Facebook.
Ok, he’s not up for talking right now. I instead focus on getting the kids fed. After dinner, we ‘divide and conquer’ the nightly bath/pyjamas/bedtime dance by being responsible for one child each.
Finally, the kids are asleep and I retreat to the couch for a moment of solace before tidying up. My husband has gone to the *ahem* men’s room and I don’t expect to see him for another hour.
Afterwards, he doesn’t join me downstairs. Instead, he goes straight to bed to scroll on his phone. I join him upstairs in bed and I notice he has his headphones on. Message received. I mouth, “Goodnight” and so does he. He goes to sleep. I console myself with some “positive self-talk”: He’s had a long day. He’s probably just tired. I haven’t said anything wrong, have I? Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him about the reno again. Excuse. Explanation. Excuse. Explanation. Sleep. Wake up. Repeat.
This has been my life for the last two years since our second child was born. And I can’t help but feel like I’m living with a roommate. Not a husband.