Since becoming an FTM, I figured that it was about time I stepped up to the plate and become an FTW at the same time. Yes, that’s right. A full-time-mum and a full-time-wife. A mean feat after nearly eight years handcuffed together in sworn allegiance. But with two for the price of one, my other-half was going to be overjoyed. So how could I deprive him any longer?
It’s a sad state of affairs but apparently very normal these days: part-time-wifery is on the up. I’m not talking about the weekend wife or leading a deceptive double life. I’m not talking about the polygamist or engaging in illicit adultery. I’m talking about the non-traditionalist, revolutionary wife who sticks two fingers up to conjugal convention and slaps a make-shift dinner on the table at 20.43 [if he’s lucky]. I’m talking about the 21st century wife who slips into an unsexy, unflattering, oversized polyester onesie as soon as the kids are down and then counts the minutes until she can justifiably sneak to bed [alone]. I’m talking about the modern-day wife who, despite her selflessness, sadly cannot be everything to everyone at every given moment and in whose busy life, there is simply not enough of her to be shared around. [Damn.] And inevitably, if it’s not herself, then it’s her old fella who loses out.
However, since becoming an FTM, I figured that it was about time I actually spent some of this newly-abundant time on my other half. Surely he deserved more than just a honorary bite of the connubial cherry? After all, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be in this most privileged of wifely positions, wagging it around Whitefield, pandering to the every need of my precious little brood. Call it love, call it devotion. Call it guilt or rather more brutal, call it payment in kind? There was no longer any justifiable excuse for the inattentive, bordering on negligent behaviour, towards His Highness, which I had become accustomed to over the years. It was now time to increase my hours, stop slacking and become a gracious and accommodating wife. From hereon in, dedication, diligence and absolute attentiveness in the name of FT wifery was in order.
And as if that wasn’t enough, I was going to have to be nice with it. Hard to swallow, I know. But even despite the fact that the household ran as a well-oiled machine, the kids were clothed from head to toe, the beds were semi-made, the washing was in piles and the social calendar was as crammed full as the freezer for the next six months, it just wasn’t sufficient. It was clear that in order to reach intrepid new levels of mutual appreciation and togetherness, I actually had to be nice. Nice. What on earth did that entail? But upon googling it, I wished I hadn’t. Nice [adj] : giving pleasure or satisfaction; pleasant or attractive. Bloody hell. What had I let myself in for?
However it was too late. There was no back-tracking now. For with nice, came a plethora of other gushy, mushy, slushy adjectival attributes that the FT wife simply must embrace. Caring, understanding, sympathetic. Doting, self-sacrificing, affectionate. The list goes on. But let’s make no mistake, immersing myself in FT wifery was going to be well worth it. Last night, he did the ironing. Tonight he loaded the dishes. Apparently it’s the small things in life that make us happy. So who knows what miracles tomorrow will bring.