P Oh What A Beautiful morning

"Oh What a Beautiful Morning!"
My husband Roy is a lucky man. Why? Because he has me, his faithful
and acquiescent wife, to temper all the restrictive, unpleasant
trappings of domesticity for him. His uncluttered, uncomplicated
lifestyle could be compared to that of a happy, carefree bachelor. Oh
yes - lucky indeed is Roy!
Attractive, professional women colleagues think that he is the human
equivalent of Superman because he has a home and children - and still
manages to lead a successful business life. He is 'lord of all' in the
office - always with a pristine shirt and trousers with a crease that
would cut through a raw potato. And always sporting a relaxed smile
redolent of a night's sleep untroubled by his children's teething,
hunger or thirst.
But these awe-struck women never acknowledge the indispensable
assistance of the feminine spectre lurking in the shadows. They do not
notice me - the main perpetrator in maintaining his suave and
sophisticated image. I am the unprofessional live-in servant who keeps
his house and only pops up for air to attend the firm's annual
dinner-dance. I am unimportant. I am unobtrusive. Almost as unobtrusive
as his display of love for me. Roy is undemonstrative and inarticulate
concerning his emotions. But he is without doubt the most literate man
I know, and his poetry is - well - poetry! He used to write poems to me
- but those days are long gone. Now I think he writes them to someone
else.
He is upstairs now, preparing to go to work, whilst I am still in my
dressing gown, enduring the Hell on earth that is known as 'Breakfast
time.' He is singing 'Oh what a beautiful morning,' and he is thinking
how good it feels to be escaping from this prison that I call 'home.' I
smell the tweedy scent of his after shave lotion as it drifts down the
stairs and into the kitchen to compete with the smell of toast, plastic
bibs, wet nappies and burnt Ready Brek. Those are the unappetising
smells that cling now to my dressing gown. His nose curls distastefully
at my 'perfume' and I imagine that he has begun to look elsewhere for
the woman he thought he had married. That hurts - but it is not a
priority now, because I have trappings of domesticity to temper. I have
breakfast to cook. I push away the thought that soon I may not have to
do this for him because he will have moved to Paradise with a
professional, fragrant, childless beauty. I have lost his love because
I am neither fragrant, nor clever enough to be a professional and I am
not beautiful. These days I don't have time to sing. I would like to
sing about how much I love Roy - but I will only sing when Roy tells me
that he loves me.
Roy doesn't have to worry about what he has for breakfast. It will be
ready for him when he arrives downstairs, scented and smooth-cheeked.
His two eggs will be cooked for exactly three minutes and his three
slices of hot buttered toast will have all the burnt edges scraped off.
Oh yes - Roy is a very lucky man indeed. I am only sad that he is
oblivious to his good fortune. Not only does he not have to look after
himself - but he also doesn't have to love the person who does. I
wonder if his 'other woman' would scrape the burnt bit off his toast.
Then I realise that she wouldn't have burnt it in the first place
because she is modern and she would have made him cook his own
breakfast - and my inferiority complex rises into my throat to choke
me. I wish that I were the modern woman that makes Roy happy. I make
him sad.
"Stop that!"
With my left hand I manage to stop my six-year-old tormenting Sheba,
our spaniel, whilst my right hand determinedly shovels spoonfuls of
Ready Brek down my two-year-old's constricted throat.
"Na! Na!"
That, I have come to realise, is baby language for 'I've had quite
enough of that thank you very much.' But I see that most of the
nourishing cereal is plastered to her chin and hair - and that she has
probably swallowed nothing.
"Grr!" Sheba growls ominously and I swing round, ready to fling my
body protectively between her and my six-year-old. If she bit him it
would be his fault - but that would be no consolation to his doting
mother and failed wife.
I sigh with relief when I see that the growl is playful and that her
tail is wagging happily. I smile at our adorable little boy, who looks
and acts just like his father. Except that he occasionally tells me
that he loves me and he is not literate. When Roy leaves me I hope that
my son will still love me, although he will probably blame me for being
a smelly and old-fashioned doormat. Which I am.
"Go and put your shoes on Sam," I suggest, knowing that if he starts
now then in twenty-three minutes he will have managed to put each shoe
on the correct foot and tie the laces in a reasonable bow that will
only need minor readjustments. His face brightens as he realises that I
am allowing him the independence that he so craves and in which I
rarely permit him to indulge. He races upstairs where I hear him
shouting proudly to Roy that he is 'getting himself ready.' I imagine
that Roy is momentarily saddened at the idea of moving in with the
unknown professional beauty but that life with smelly old-fashioned me
is intolerable. I have probably met her at the annual dinner and dance,
but I am unable to put a face or body to her competent persona.
"Na!" I turn round sharply and I realise that I have left my
two-year-old unattended for a second too long. With a right hook that
Mike Tyson would be proud of she has swept the cereal bowl from her
table onto the floor, where it has landed right under Sheba's quivering
nose. Both Sheba and I lunge for the dish - but I lose and knock my own
nose against the leg of the high chair.
"Grr!" That is me, not Sheba. I growl angrily as she races off through
the dog flap with the dish between her teeth. She will take it to the
top of the garden, where she will lick every scrap of food from it and
then chew the plastic plate until it resembles a cheese-grater.
"Sheba's up the garden with something in her mouth and Sam is
struggling with his shoes."
Roy is looking accusingly at me as he vocally brings my failures to
the surface. I grit my teeth and try to be modern.
"It's only the baby's dish and Sam will manage his shoes. Oh, and your
toast needs to be scraped."
Roy stares at me as though I have just told him to scrub the floor.
Toast-scraping is wife-work. He solemnly contemplates the toast. The
baby gurgles and he ruffles her curls. I imagine that he is ruffling my
curls and I feel warm inside. And then I imagine his fingers stroking
the smooth exfoliated knees of his professional beauty and the warmth
turns to ice.
Ten minutes later he is gone and I am left alone to throw away the
toast and eggs. Roy has lost his appetite this morning because I have
tried to be modern and delegate some of the domestic chores to him. He
will not last five minutes with his modern, professional beauty and I
expect he will eventually crawl back to his second best option. Me.
This idea makes me feel worse.
I scoop up the baby and go upstairs to inspect Sam's shoes. As I pass
the bedroom door something pink catches my eye and I look closer. On my
pillow is an envelope with my name on it in Roy's bold handwriting. I
lay the baby on my bed and slit the envelope with my thumb.
It is a perfumed Valentine card in the shape of a heart, with a
frothy, lacy border. The verse is hand written - and my heart soars as
I recognise my husband's writing. I read it aloud.
"For eleven years we've lived together,
Our love has stood the test of time,
Children, work and stormy weather
Since February 1989.

You may have forgotten how much I care.
You think I never yearn to share
Our moments alone - which happen so rare;
And I criticise and call you 'unfair,'

But bear this in mind when I'm distant or sad,
That only without you could life really be bad.
I'll be there beside you forever in life.
You're my dearest, most precious - my beautiful wife."

I don't know how long I have been sitting here on the edge of the bed,
but the baby has fallen asleep and Sam has curled up beside me, also
asleep. I had forgotten that today was Valentine's Day. I have craved
romance for so long - and I forgot the most romantic day of the year!
But Roy hasn't forgotten. And my heart has wings now because I know
that he loves me and that there is no professional beauty waiting to
take him to Paradise. I am beautiful and fragrant, like the card he
chose for me and the words he wrote for me. Only for me!
Softly I begin to sing,
"Oh what a beautiful morning!
Oh what a beautiful day!&;#8230;.."