So today my husband returns from the snow, with his pinky finger in a splint. He’s been there for a week now as a team building exercise for work. He has his own apartment in a fancy resort, with all meals included and a roaring fire to succumb to with a glass of scotch after he’s spent all day on the slopes. For work. As a team building exercise.

The poor guy took a turn on the slopes and dislocated his pinky.

He’s distraught as any man would be in these difficult circumstances. I send my support in these trying times, because that’s what marriage is about.

While he’s been away, I’ve had to exercise our team alone, and by exercise, I sometimes mean exorcise.

We have five children.

That’s a team in itself.

All week I’ve worked long hours, travelling up to 2 hours one way, then having to deal with real estate agents and vendors who want me to work magic on a property that would in fact only benefit from a bulldozer. They’d be pressuring me to photo shop an eyesore out of the back yard, and no matter how much I explain that I don’t want to get sued for falsifying photography, they’d look at me as though their misfortune is my fault. As though I was the one who bought the house with a working train track adjacent to the back porch. As though it was me who was being unreasonable. As though I would be the one who would be getting the commission if the house sold and not just the measly payment of the lowest costing package of photography they’ve chosen.

I’ve had to step out of the car on the highway as a tree has fallen down in front of me, narrowly missing my vehicle. In the pouring rain, and with the help of man in a suit, and older guy in a combie, we’ve managed to lift up the heavy trunk and place it on the side of the road out of harm’s way. Not before older guy in a combie fell onto the tree trunk cutting open his left arm. Luckily the baby wipes I carry as a staple in my handbag, fixes everything. They can even be used as a torniquay apparently. Go Woolworths Select brand. Great job on the embossing.

I’ve wrangled the kids alone. School drop off’s and pick ups. Pre school drop offs and pick ups. I’ve had nervous breakdowns every morning because someone can’t find their shoe. Someone can’t find their toothbrush. Someone can’t find their school bag. Someone can’t find their will to live….oh wait, that was me.

I’ve had to miraculously find some time to fit in grocery shopping between the mania that is my day, all so that I can go home and cook dinner for kids who will whinge profusely and tell me they’d rather be eating popcorn chicken. That I am ruining their life because I’ve tried to sneak broccolini onto their plate. That I am a bad person and the Colonel is their savior.

I’ve had to play cop in my “spare time”. Pulling siblings off each other when one has taken the other’s stupid novelty toy of the week. Placing them under house arrest to my own detriment because all I really want is for them to be as far away from me as possible.

I’ve had sleepless nights nursing a baby who cut his first molar. Who’d be up all night thrashing in my bed because his gums hurt and he’s trying to torture me. When I’ve finally calmed him down I lay as still as a log, I slow my breathing down, I try to ignore the itch on the small of my back, I play dead, because I know that one movement, I know that one gesture, will bring it all undone once again.

Between nervous breakdown’s I’ve had to somewhat tidy the house. Place dirty clothes in the washing machine to ensure the kids have a uniform for the next day. Sometimes they do, sometimes they have to fish through the dirty clothes basket to find the sports shorts that I forgot to wash. I try not to feel like a bad mother as I throw them clean undies from the massive basket that I am still yet to sort through, and by basket I mean dining table that we can no longer eat off because it’s full of clothes begging to be ironed.

And my husband will walk through that door like he’s returned from war or something, wanting sympathy for his mangled finger. He’ll tell tales of all the woes he’s suffered while he’s been away at that five star resort.

He’ll want attention and pity for all of his suffering.

Of which, I’ll pretend to give him, all the while murdering him 16 different ways in my mind.

We’ll hug and I’ll say, welcome home, we missed you.

I’ll pour myself a glass a scotch and give him the middle finger while his back is turned.

Because that’s what marriage is all about.