Dear Matt, father of my kid, life lobster, epic tea maker and sock bundler…
It started with the sock balls I’d find in the wash; we’re talking initial frustration, which soon melted into endearment. If you want to bundle your socks up and have them emerge from the washing machine sodden and knotted, that’s OK.
It’s OK because the love bank is pretty full. There have been times when we’ve been in the red, but then a couple of text messages come through, making me feel like a bit of alright at a time when I was doubting a lot of things: body, mind, wardrobe, need for Krispy Kreme.
I think it was probably those moments of “Darling, can you just get my… [insert iPhone/ chocolate digestive/drink]” when swamped by the breastfeeding cushion and kid when I realised you were solid gold. Despite my consistent inability to get my act together, you never once made me feel like I was being unreasonable in using you as a personal maternity butler.
Sure, you steadily slept through the newborn mewling and haven’t totally perfected the art of washing plates, but you’ve managed to somehow oversee all my blather to offer up a cheeky bum squeeze in the tinned goods aisle of Tesco.
We’ve navigated 10 years together so far: 10 years that have taken us to Dubai, a Muslim state through to Amsterdam’s Red Light District, to East London where we are proud owners of one of the last homes to boast an outside loo. It’s not been a perfect ride by any means, but it’s been ours and one that’s been punctuated with the mad toddler requests from our daughter, Mae, and, of course, sock balls.
Love Anna, your wife and unbundler of the socks
Published in the latest issue of Smallish Magazine
