I need a house husband.
I don't want to replace the Long Suffering Husband. Even I am aware of a good thing when it happens to me, and the likelihood of my finding someone else willing to put up with me for the long haul is zilch to nil. Especially when confronted by the fact they would become column fodder.
No, I like the LSH right where he is - or where he isn't, actually. I would love for him to quit his job and stay home as a full-time house husband.
I've tried the housewife thing. It wasn't my thing. This was a long, long time ago, when the Sassy Saint was the Perfect Baby - quiet, slept through the night, never fussed and strangers couldn't believe her sausage curls and resemblance to Shirley Temple - and our Little Professor had not yet joined our happy(ish) home.
We were poor and lived in a tiny, two-bedroom apartment. There wasn't a lot of stuff to clean. Since we were poor, we didn't have cable, so I couldn't watch the afternoon soaps, and we had only one car, so I couldn't go anywhere. What I could do was put the Perfect Baby in her stroller and parade her up and down the street - in good weather.
I thought I was going to die of boredom. There are only so many times you can play "patty-cake" before your sanity snaps. Mine, anyway; some people - like my sister, Foo-Dog - thrive with that sort of thing.
So here I am, entertaining - maybe? - all of you. We do have cable now, but I'd probably watch the NHL Network instead of afternoon soaps. And our house is twice the size, and there's a lot more stuff to clean.
However, while I'm here, the laundry, dishes and housework are still piling up. So are all those myriad little chores, like paying bills, grocery shopping and getting the car inspected.
The LSH, being a modern guy - one who enjoys wearing clean clothing - pitches in, but between our work schedules and the children's extracurricular activities, it sometimes gets out of hand. Some days it looks like a laundromat, book store and toy store simultaneously exploded.
On my days off, I prefer to stay in my pajamas, drink coffee and cackle over the Philadelphia Flyers' losing record. (I do some housework between coffee drinking and gloating. Some.)
When the LSH has a day off, things get done. I go to work, write/edit/obsess over anywhere between 1,500 and 6,000 words, and come home to a clean house and dinner. And he does all the chores and running. I walk in the front door, put on my slippers, grab my plate - and that's it. There's nothing left for me to do. It's the closest to heaven I'll ever be.
I'm telling you, he's the perfect house husband. And he's mine!
All I have to do is figure out how to survive without his income.
(Wallace-Minger, The Weirton Daily Times community editor, is a Weirton resident and can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org)