As a writer, I would have thought I’d be owning the patent on dreaming in my couple. Turns out I was wrong. I married a dreamer, one that makes me look almost down to earth most of the time.
If you met my husband, you wouldn’t peg him for the dreamer type. Although he’s young, he looks older than his years, with a beard, a belly, and an important career that convey authority and respect. He’s smart, smarter than anyone I know, the kind of man that makes you think twice before voicing your opinion. I, on the other hand, am always sporting a goofy smile from being lost inside my thoughts or holding an imaginary conversation with one of my book’s characters. I usually am missing a sock, or forgot to brush my hair, I trip about a thousand times a day, my shins black and blue as testament that my head is stuck somewhere high in the clouds. The roles in our partnership should be easily defined: dreaming for me, planning for him. Well, that’s not exactly the case…
I’ve known my husband for five years now, been married to him for two. In all honesty, I was expecting him to take care of me. Not financially, but dealing with the bills, the running of our lives, leaving me the space and time I need to create stories. With the arrival of my daughter, it became evidently clear that things would have to be worked out differently. Although he can be very practical in his job, my husband tends to overlook the rest of our every day life. Bills are forgotten till warnings are issued, holidays are always booked at the very last minute, and physical needs neglected.
“What? You’re pregnant and you need to eat lunch early? Just wait a few more hours please. I need to finish pretend planning the next five years of our lives.”
“What? Are you sure the baby needs to be changed more than once a day? But I forgot the diaper bag, my wallet to buy new diapers, and my phone to call you for help.”
I think you get the gist. Lost inside his dreams for a bright future, he tends to forget there is a present and two women depending on him right here, right now. We have a place in his dreams though. He dreams big mostly for us and I when I get really annoyed at his forgetfulness, I try to remember he has the best intentions.
Mostly my husband loves to plan our next big move. His life has been spent moving from one place to another and after three years in London, you can see the itch to move again is bad. I can’t blame him. Although I love London, the awful weather and the crazy cost of life make me yearn to move as well. In the past three years, here’s the list of the places that have been suggested, researched and talked over as if the move was imminent:
TOKYO, NEW YORK, SEOUL, SINGAPOUR, BARCELONA, MIAMI, LOS ANGELES, PALO ALTO and the latest to date, AUSTIN TEXAS
Every time I fret. How will we find a school for our daughter in just a few months? Where will we live? Will I have to drive (my personal worst fear)? What will I do there? And then after a few weeks, he finds a new business idea that needs to be developed elsewhere and the project is forgotten. Makes my head spin and sometimes I resent him for it.
But mostly, I know I’m lucky. We might stay forever in London but living with a dreamer makes for an interesting life. I’m now an expert in real estate in no less than three continents and I get my fill of adventures without ever having to leave the comfort of my living room. There isn’t a dull moment with my husband and I doubt there ever will. He keeps me on my toes for I never know what his next wild project will be.
So long as I’m in charge of food and the diaper bag, we should be fine 😉