One Year Later

"So what do you guys do at night?" my friend T says.

"On the rare chance we get to go home at roughly the same time, we'll try and watch TV," I reply.

Wife says "We're watching True Blood."

"Any good?"

"Well, if you like the occult and people fucking the UnDead, then I guess it's ok," I say.

"Well, what else do you guys do?"

"We read in bed," Wife says. "Like old people."

But she smiles at me.

I'm back. But I'm not really here

I like being employed. But I'm ok with not working.

Why does that look so familiar?

During lunch at IKEA today, my colleagues and I were irritated by a group of siblings at the neighbouring table. Before you go all stereotypical and think 'What a non-parent thing to say,' try sitting next to 5 kids, each of whom have a furry, floppy toy duck that emits a high-pitched squeak when squeezed. Each of them. Squeezing. Squeaking. Giggling. Every. Single. Minute.

But it did get me thinking about the toy.

The device that makes the toy duck squeak is placed in the neck. That and the fact it has bulging eyes makes me wonder if the design is based on something rather specific. Pet shops always tell parents to be careful when mixing kittens and puppies with children because children often don't realise these tiny animals aren't toys. Pet strangulation is common.

And then you think about that toy.

A toy that only makes a squeaking sound when squeezed around the neck by tiny hands.

Makes you wonder: Why is it dolls and action figures always seem to lose their heads before their limbs?

According to plan

The sound of a home renovation is a terrible sound. Visually, it has in common with cosmetic surgery that necessary destruction of the thing you're trying to make pretty. It's like this initially; it's only temporary; it'll be beautiful in the end. These are things I tell myself every time I visit the new house...and get an eyeful of something that looks like a scene from Black Hawk Down.

Each time I enter the house I steel myself, and my jaw locks in a mask of stoicism I don't feel. Every step of the way has been a test of nerves as the contractor regularly starts a sentence with 'Hey, bro, can we talk?' with the same practiced, neutral politeness of an oncologist or funeral home director. And you realise that things can be going according to plan and yet need about 38 course corrections along the way.

But it's only temporary. Everyone I've spoken to has had the same stories, and they give the patronising smile of those who've forgotten how tough high school was just because they're in college. My experience is not unique, merely personal. Merely mine.

I hope I've not been a terrible, sulky, dramatic husband through all of this. Though I'm not going through this alone, I've occasionally demonstrated an ability to make people feel like they've left me to fend for myself. It's not true, even those times when I've felt so, just so I could wallow a bit.

But it looks nice so far.

It'll be beautiful in the end.

Motherfucker, it better be.