It’s fair to say that my husband has been demoted. His status is definitely not what it used to be. He used to be the person I dressed for. The person I primped for. The person I made an effort for.
Not any more.
Those days are gone. It’s called marriage. (Approaching fifteen years now.) And parenthood. (Approaching six years now.) And the longer we’re married and parents, the less of an opportunity there is to primp and preen.
Some mornings, my husband leaves our home and I’m still “Morning Mommy” -- a term borrowed from one of our son’s story books. Morning Mommy is me in pajamas, polka-dotted slippers, messy hair. Morning mommy doesn’t leave the house in this state. Morning mommy can be seen by no one -- except my son and husband.
Many nights, my husband returns home to find me as “Night Mommy” -- a term I coined. Night Mommy is me wearing comfy stretch pants with faded knees, polka-dotted slippers, and a roomy shirt.
On these days, my husband has missed the whole middle segment of the day; the part of the day when I look my best, the part of the day when I have primped and preened-- for strangers. When I was dressed in an outfit presentable to the outside world. When my hair was brushed and adorned with a clip. When I accessorized with jewelry that matched my outfit. He has missed “Daytime Mommy.”
The pendulum has shifted. Where once my husband was the man who would only see the “best version” of myself, he is now the man who sees, who knows, the “real version” of myself. The me with cold feet even when the temperature climbs outside. The me with a rumbly stomach when we’re trying to go to sleep, and I’m not the least bit hungry.
Home is supposed to be our safe place, our sanctuary, the place where we can be ourselves and be comfortable, knowing that we are not being judged or criticized.
Now, after almost fifteen years of marriage, I have learned that home is not just a place; home is my husband as well. And in that respect, I have given my husband the most profound promotion I can think of.