Might sound strange, coming from the mouth or laptop of an atheist. Let me reassure you – I haven’t just woken up with a whole new belief system, had an epiphany or been smoking anything illegal, but I have found a God and he lives under my roof!
‘Domestic Goddess’ – a term that could never and will never be applied to yours truly. Never. So, no, it’s not me and it’s not, surprisingly, my Big Boy or baby. That leaves my husband. Could it be? Yes, yes, yes! I’m not sure that he’ll appreciate being labelled a God, let alone a Domestic God, but what the hell. He deserves the accolade.
And so to a tale, to make you all green with envy (or perhaps not, if you’re lucky enough to have one of your own). Last week I went out at night, leaving my husband with Big Boy to put to bed and the baby to ‘mind’ (note: baby is breastfed, not taking a bottle and usually has a rollover feed at 9:30pm.) One minute before arriving home he called, to let me know (very calmly, to his credit) that the baby had awoken of his own accord, apparently aware that his late night feed was well overdue. I screeched to a halt, partially mounting the curb outside our house, having decided that it would be quicker to commence feeding with a dash from the road than the garage. There was no panic as he helped me get organised and no complaint when I jumped into bed alongside him to feed the noisy sucker.
It was a late night, not drifting into my favourite place in the world until after midnight and so, needless to say, when the baby awoke at the crack of dawn the next morning, after being drained left and right, I was reluctant to get out of bed. My husband got up with both kids and before I emerged a couple of hours later, had cleared the bench of the previous day’s coated dishes, put on a load of washing (that includes handling the stinky modern nappies) and vacuumed.
And so to you, my husband, co-creator of Big Boy and the baby and Domestic God, I charge my glass and toast to years of domestic bliss (no pressure). Cheers!
Love it!