(With apologies to Barbara Mandrell. I know MY interpretation of this ol’ country song title is not what she was singing about, but I digress….)
My husband is out of town. I don’t miss him.
Yikes, I can’t believe I just said that out loud. Here. Propped up amongst my freshly washed sheets and six pillows. Comforted by the warm anonymity of this blunt-iful blog.
In our nearly 14 years together, there have not been many nights like last night. No sir-eee.
And if you’re suddenly imagining a lengthy Samantha-from-Sex-and-the-Cty entertains her rabbit episode meets Fifty Shades of Grey, you’ll be so sorely disappointed.
Nope. For last night, I slept. For nine–count them–nine uninterrupted hours.
Ok, maybe I missed him for a short second when I decided it would be perfectly ok to roll over and sleep in the middle. Wait! What’s that? There is actually a growing “hump” in the middle of our bed between “his” side and “my” side. Underused. Who knew? I giggle (to myself, of course.) Can’t wait to text him. But not now; not before I settle in to my new-found heavenly position.
It wasn’t too hot.
It wasn’t too cold. There were no other sounds in the room. No snoring. No moans and groans.
No discussions about extra blankets vs no extra blankets, window open vs no window open, tv on vs no tv on, “Ok, if I read?”, “Put that damn phone away”, “I can never sleep right after hockey”, “What time is your alarm going off?”
None of that.
It was still, and peaceful, and perfect.
Let’s go kids. Early bedtime tonight!