The Non-Pseudonymous Spouse

I have failed to come up with a spousal pseudonym, as I promised to do in my first non-fake post . I tried. “Oral Hygiene King” wouldn’t work because though my dear has great teeth, he doesn’t really share my obsession. (He has, however, gotten much more fastidious about oral hygiene due to my influence, a fact I find quite endearing. He even asked for his own electric brush head for the Sonicare a few months after I bought it. I was verklemt, I tell you.) “Oral King” would be funny and accurate (I am a lucky woman), but I kind of hate to reduce the complexity of the love of my life to his skills down under, important though they may be. That’s really been the sticker, the whole “reducing the complexity” thing. I have trouble with that. It’s why I’m always a little uncomfortable chanting at political rallies. I’m at Take Back the Night and everyone’s like “Yes means fuck me! No means fuck you!” And I’m thinking Or maybe no means "Thanks, but I’m really not in the mood right now," or "I like you fine as a friend, but I’m really not interested in taking things to that level," or…

(My favorite advice regarding the spousal pseudonym came from Tobias, who suggested “Knox Harrington, Video Artist.” While I loved the idea, it seemed 1. cumbersome and 2. likely to confuse any person not intimately familiar with The Big Lebowski, if such a person exists.)

Anyway, whatever his name is, I’ve been appreciating my husband even more than usual lately. Partly this is because O. has been sick, running a fever and just generally acting listless and sad, and my man, who is always a wonderful and tender daddy, has been even more sweet and loving to O. in his time of woe. It’s touching to behold or to overhear from the other room, and I find it quite a turn-on as well. I never liked that cheesy poster of the shirtless, bemuscled hunk holding the naked newborn in his big manly mitts, but a real man tenderly caring for a real child? That’s hot.

I’m also missing my man already in anticipation of the five days O. and I are going to be away from him. We are heading out to New Mexico tomorrow to visit my best friend, which will be great fun. But I’ll miss my dear. And the thought of O. being away from his dad exacerbates that missing in a strange, intense way. It’s like I’m missing O. vicariously, for my husband, or feeling sad at the very thought of them being apart.

All the while I’m feeling these tender feelings, though, I’m also thinking of ways for said husband to be productive around the house while we’re away. I’ve already thought up (and tactfully suggested) at least three fairly major projects he could undertake in the days we’re gone, in addition to the freelance work he’ll be doing to earn cash. He said to me “You have this idea that time will just stretch out endlessly while you’re away,” and I had to admit that was true. I haven’t been away from O. for more than two days since he was born, and have never been completely alone in my house for more than a few hours since then. Like many parents of young children, I think of my life BC and wonder “What the hell did I do with all my time back then?” I can’t believe I didn’t write a novel and sew a quilt and learn how to speak Chinese with that limitless free time.

I forget that I have always been exceptionally good at wasting time. And part of what’s cool about having a kid is that you get to sit around the house and goof off and play, and instead of wasting time you’re being a responsible adult and an active, involved parent.

So, I’m outta here. Happy St. Patrick’s Day one day early. Drink some green beer and then go find some snakes to drive away, like the beloved saint himself.