Coming home after a long day at work and then having to face the evening shift of meals, baths, story time and bedtime is a daunting prospect.
What can be even more daunting is facing the void where adult discussion should be. Dinnertime ‘discussion’ becomes more about getting a child to eat something rather than conversing with each other.
Bath time becomes about the ‘wow moments’ of gushing at how cute the children are, how much they’ve grown and how well they play together.
If you’ve read this far you know that story time becomes about who can speed read and sneakily skip pages without being caught by super sharp Master 3 while the other adult collapses in front of the TV.
By this time it’s all you can do to quickly clean up the dishes, shower yourself and collapse next to your husband for some ‘couple time’. There’s the familiar closeness, there’s the physical contact, there’s the bond of love, friendship and children, there’s the passion . . .
But there’s a problem. There’s another thing in the room turning me into a patsy. The TV has become more interesting and less demanding, creeping in to take the place where I used to be.
This rectangular mistress sits prominently on the wall, flat, shiny and sleek – offering all kinds of untold pleasures. And when one offering grows old you can simply switch channels. It suckers you in and traps you. Hours pass and you’ve done nothing but sit and stare and wait; wait for the incessant ads to end.
There’s no doubt that I use the TV too; to zone out, to escape or just to hear adult voices. However, it’s over-use in the household has worn thin. Generally I think I could say that my husband likes to watch it to relax. I’m a woman who demands a conversation. This inevitably leads to an interruption in his scheduled programming.
I think my conversation is worth with the interruption lest this mistress erode my relationship. I turn it off and saunter away.