I tidy, clean and fight laundry the day he is due to return home. I’m tempted to hurl everything into the hall closet, but as we are married to each other, he already knows that old trick. I curse my open plan home as doors are such a great disguise for mayhem.
I debate whether a single rose on the nightstand would be an appropriate gesture? Would his eye be drawn to the single bloom and glance over the bomb site, or is it just too sloppy? I talk it over with my daughter, hard at work on a ‘welcome home’ picture.
“I think it sounds very romantic. Is Dad romantic?”
“What it is?” chimes in a small person.
“What is what dear?”
My daughter giggles, “it’s lovey dovey, kissy squishy that kind of stuff.”
Clearly I have been remiss in the birds and bees department.
“He is be like dah flowers like me?”
I reflect upon their father who doesn’t know his Pelargoniums from his Buddleia, “Well, he does like some flowers.”
“We can be choose his favourite.”
“That’s nice dear. What is his favourite do you think?”
“Daisy,” he says with authority.
“How do you know?”
“Because it is be my favourite and we are be dah same.”