The One My Husband Can't Read

No, I'm not admitting to a torrid affair (however, Mr. Clooney, I'm free when you're free, k?).

As I had talked about earlier, E has finished his last class to complete his MBA. And it was a total b!tch. I'm talking about his nightly routine would consist of this: come home, spend time with kids while I made dinner, eat dinner, go upstairs and do homework, come downstairs, go to bed. Weekends were a similar story. Which meant that the tag-team approach to parenting I had previously enjoyed was, to coin a phrase, shot to sh!t.

I had to do it all. The majority of the time.

I would love to tell you that I took on the yoke of burden for my family with a stiff upper lip, silently toiling away, knowing that my sweet husband was working just as hard upstairs in our make-shift office.

I would be lying. But you knew that didn't you?

Oh no, there were fights. Many. Centered around the same theme: "I'm tired of doing it all by myself. To hell with your school, spend time with your kids while I go drink in a dark quiet bar somewhere."

But, once I came to terms with this temporary arrangement, I developed something. A stronger bond with my daughter. Somewhere between the dinners thrown on the floor, the poopy diapers, the nights of not falling asleep for hours, a deeper bond has formed.

We're back to normal now. School's out forever, tag-team parenting is back in.

But that bond remains. And for that, I am grateful.