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Seven Year Itch?

seven_year_itchToday is mine and Husband’s 7th wedding anniversary, seven (very eventful years) since we walked, barefoot, along the white sand on a tropical island and promised to love each other for the rest of our lives. Our anniversary is the day after Sausage’s birthday, so it tends to fall by the wayside, in fact we’d both forgotten about it altogether until my mother-in-law reminded us yesterday. We’re neither one of us much for cards (unless you count my frankly amazing Alternative Valentines ideas) or mushy displays of affection, but the whole thing has got me thinking.

I’m a huge Marilyn Monroe fan, and the film Seven Year Itch keeps popping into my head. It’s based on a play which focuses on the supposed decline of interest in a monogamous relationship once you reach the seven year mark.

I have to say, I feel the exact opposite.

My husband and I are by no means perfect. We’re both liable to grump and take things out on each other when we’re stressed and we’re guilty of not making proper time to be a couple, but I genuinely couldn’t be happier with my choice of life-partner. Yes, we have differences, but I think our relationship has got to a stage where it’s matured and our differences largely compliment each other now.

My Husband knows me better than anybody else; he knows what I’m thinking before I’ve even said anything and after 7 years of marriage, I know that he has my back, 100%. Far from feeling like our relationship is stale or worn out, I feel like we’re approaching new challenges and becoming stronger together than ever.

He, Sausage, Chuck and I are a great little unit, a team that functions brilliantly together and enjoys each other’s company. I couldn’t ask for much more than that.

When we met and married within 6 months, we had a lot of critics, people who insisted that we were rushing into things and that it wouldn’t last. I like to think that we’ve proved those people wrong – not that either of us cared what they thought in the first place! We both trusted our instincts, knowing that sometimes when something feels right you just have to go with it.

Far from feeling a Seven Year Itch, I cannot wait to see what the next seven years with my Husband will bring. And the next seven years, and the next. I feel blessed to be with someone who just gets me. I’m no picnic to be around during times when I let my issues get the better of me and knowing that he’s stuck around in spite of all that reaffirms how lucky I feel and reminds me of how loved I am.

In short, I suppose what I’m trying to say is this: Happy Anniversary, Husband. Thank you for putting up with me. I love you.

Alternative Valentines

With Valentine’s Day fast approaching, I thought I’d hop aboard the Hallmark bandwagon and have a peruse of The Broadway during my lunch hour and see if I could find something to surprise Husband with in the morning. I went into a shop that sells generalised Object D’Art and other pointless, middle-class tat and noticed that they had some cards, and I toyed with the idea of getting one, despite the fact that we don’t usually do greetings cards.

The offerings on display reminded me why. There was either unbridled schmaltz with “You’re my Soul Mate” plastered all over it, homogonised sexuality declaring “You’re a Love Machine!” and attempts at romantic humour with “Me Love You Long Time!” (although, quite why anyone would give a card to their loved one with a famous phrase uttered by a Vietnamese prostitute in a war film is quite beyond me). Each and every one of them made me feel nauseous. There’s no way I’d say any of the things written on these cards to Husband, despite the fact that I love him and if I believed in soul mates, he’d probably be mine.

I got to thinking that I’m probably not the only one who feels like this, so I thought I’d come up with some alternative Valentine’s Day card slogans, for those of us who like to keep our breakfast down.

“To My Husband – Thanks For Making Me Feel Sexy, Even Though My Neck Smells of Baby Sick”


“My Darling – I Love You (especially when you put your dirty washing in the laundry basket)”


“Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, You Cook a Wicked Steak and I Right Fancy You”


“I’ll never be as young or limber as I was when we met…but I’m a better cook now, so that makes me about even, right?!”


“Fuck it, Let’s Get a Bucket”


What would your perfect Valentine’s card say?


When Husband and I first got married, he didn’t like to wear his wedding ring. It wasn’t anything nefarious, he just wasn’t comfortable wearing jewellery, and naturally I kicked up a fuss about it at every possible opportunity. So much so that he went out and had a ‘J’ tattooed on his ring finger, just to show that while he didn’t like to wear a ring, he was 100% committed and taken. He shouldn’t have needed to do this, but I’m an insecure maniac, so I’m grateful that he did. As it turns out he started wearing his ring anyway, some time around Sausage being born I think, so he has both a permanent and a removable reminder of me, 24/7!

Because of my underactive thyroid, despite the fact that I’m medicated, my hands and feet still swell up so I don’t know if my rings are going to even fit me from one day to the next. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve gone to sleep with my ring on and woken up with swollen hands and a purple ring finger, only to have to rush to the bathroom and the liquid soap dispenser to try to get my mini-tourniquet off. As a result, I tend to be not wearing my ring more often than I am, and around the house it’s not so bad but when I go out, I feel naked without it. I’m rather slapdash with where I leave it too, it can be found anywhere from the serving hatch (yes, we have a serving hatch…) to the bookshelf, to Husbands desk, to the bathroom shelf, to the floor next to my bed.

Only, that’s the problem. It can’t be found at all anymore. I have lost my wedding ring.

I lost it a couple of months ago and have been frantically searching for it ever since. I even put off telling Husband that I couldn’t find it, in the hope that I’d find it before I had to confess. I was almost hoping that he was doing one of those mean, but ultimately well-meaning, pranks that people on American sit-coms do, where he walks into a room, finds my ring on the floor, picks it up, pulls a few over-the-top facial expressions to camera, and then hides it and revels in my agony at trying to secretly find it. But no, Husband is not that mean and my ring is definitely lost.

Aside from the fact that I’m abso-fucking-lutely gutted at having lost my ring, it’s compounded by the fact that it made it all the way to the bloody Maldives and back, unscathed, but I can’t keep an eye on in it in a small bungalow in the South East of Essex. Then, there’s the judgement. I must add, this is absolutely just an imaginary perceived judgement that I project onto others, but in my head, when I’m walking along with Sausage, EVERY SINGLE PERSON we walk past checks my ring finger and does an audible ‘TUT’ when they see that it’s naked. Especially when I go to Waitrose. You know what a lot of Waitrose shoppers are like. Older, conservative, JUDGEMENTAL. (Obviously not all Waitrose shoppers are like this, I shop in there occasionally and I’m a young, liberal, seemingly unmarried mother…). I feel like I want to walk around with a sign around my neck which says ‘I AM married, you know’. In fact, if I ever find myself conversing with a stranger, I do tend to slip in the odd “Oh, my Husband this and my Husband that…” just to really hit the message home. And it’s ridiculous, because A) so fucking what if I was an unmarried mother? and B) I don’t give the tiniest shit what the lady on the Lottery counter in Waitrose thinks she knows about me. I must have this one little, minute corner of my brain, which judges unmarried mothers and secretly yearns to dress in John Lewis slacks and an ancient Hermes scarf.

The long and short of it is, my poor little finger feels naked. I’d love another ring to replace the old one, and Husband has offered, but who can warrant just going out and splashing cash on a replacement wedding ring that you were stupid enough to lose, when you have an almost-three-year-old with a birthday coming up? So, for now, my finger will remain sad and naked.

Maybe I could draw a ring on…?