Recently, a friend asked for divorce lawyer recommendations on her Instagram stories. “If you hear of any two-for-one deal, let me know,” I responded at 10pm.
Of course, she didn’t answer until business hours because, unlike me, this woman has boundaries and etiquette in spades.
The potential beginning of the end had occurred 40 minutes earlier when I had trudged downstairs to make the baby some milk.
Fred had enquired as to the whereabouts of the box of Celebrations that we had stashed away out of reach from the kids.
When the tub couldn’t be located, I was accused of polishing them off — an erroneous allegation given that I had only polished off the ones I liked and had thrown the Bountys in the compost bin.
But Fred insisted that I had to have something to do with the missing milseáin, despite my suggesting it could be a burglar or a large rodent who could chew through plastic.
Needless to say, things got ever so slightly lively as sugar levels plummeted and patience on both sides frayed.
I was so taken aback by these late-night accusations that I momentarily lost track of my Aptamil scoops.
After a bit of heated bickering back and forth, Fred responded with some dramatic hand moves, the kind that wouldn’t be amiss when the manager of the winning side is trying to get the referee to blow up an All-Ireland final in the final seconds of extra-time.
He headed off to bed while I pondered our future.
Despite the adage that a watched kettle never boils, boil it did, but not before my blood had reached 100 degrees celsius, as I contemplated a life minus melodicas and my husband’s many, many Pianist magazines.
Before anyone gets the wrong idea, this magazine is geared toward piano enthusiasts. However, while reading through it on the loo the other day, I found an article entitled: ‘Does size really matter?’
Regardless, the magazines keep my husband entertained for hours down in the box room, so whatever instrument he is tinkering away on is at least a hobby he is serious about.
I lay awake long after this exchange, mentally rearranging the pieces of our lives. Questions as to the logistics of separation abounded. Would custody be split? When would we tell our families? How would we manage birthdays and Christmas?
The next morning, I was awoken by the wafting aroma of frying sausages. I pottered down to the kitchen to find Fred staring into the fridge. “Do you want black pudding?” he asked breezily.
“Well, somebody’s in better form this morning,” I said because I’m observant like that.
Scratching the back of his head, Fred’s facial expression read of confusion. “Was I talking to you last night?” he asked. “Are you sure I wasn’t sleepwalking?”
Ah, the old sleepwalking defence. There’s a reason the judges generally throw it out every time.
Clearly, my husband was just trying to pull a fast one here by feigning ignorance, but I cut him some slack because if there’s a marital problem that can’t be solved by sausages, I haven’t met it yet.
Instead of stewing, I moved on because I love him — and sausages.
A few months back, in a video shared on TikTok and Facebook, former TV presenter Jo Frost of Supernanny fame expressed her belief that couples were too quick to blame kids for their relationship problems, insisting that little ones were not to blame for relationships taking a turn for the worse.
She is right to a point —couples should ideally be in a good place before they decide to bring an 18-year commitment into the mix, but I do feel kids are an aggravating factor in the demise of so many duos.
While kids are certainly not to blame, it would be inaccurate to deny that they are the breaking point for many. Any existing problems will often be exacerbated and magnified by throwing kids into the mix.
Going from partners to parents is like attempting to climb a mountain in a pair of flip-flops — a dicey endeavour, made even more arduous by the unsteady terrain.
Much like mountain climbers talking about their Saturday morning hike, parents often find it near impossible to discuss anything that doesn’t relate to kids, especially when the conversation is with the person who is their co-parent.
This is another reason relationships can buckle under the pressure of parenthood — where it becomes so consuming it is the only thing that still connects you.
Is it ever acceptable to lose your cool over a box of Celebrations? Absolutely not. But I will say that four years in, we’re both a bit demented with exhaustion at times and said crazy things like “maybe we should get a dog” and “time to pack away the winter coats — summer is here”.
Thus far, our arguments haven’t related to anything along the lines of forging my signature on things or buying property behind my back in Spain, and they are more likely to pertain to not putting the bins out or not picking your Pianist magazine off the floor.
In other words, nothing a sleep and a sausage won’t fix — and maybe a box of Celebrations.
