The only thing better than having one mom, I realized, was having two. Here I’d been raised up singing, “Someday my prince will come,” when really I should have been wishing for a wife. If only that was the way my heart swung, so many hiccups could have been avoided. My marriage is a case of opposites attract, but what I need now is someone else with a skillset of…well….me.
Imagine having someone who knows where you left your sunglasses, what you really want for your birthday (and it’s not another gift card), how to keep their mouth shut when you’re watching Younger. A wife would keep the pinot coming and only ask questions during commercials.
A wife wouldn’t just keep the toilet seat down, occasionally she would go ahead and clean it. There would always be toilet paper in the bathroom, and I wouldn’t be the only person in my house who actually puts it on the holder.
A wife would keep me stocked up on tampons and eye cream— toiletries like these would just appear on my shelves before I ever ran out, like a magically replenishing bottomless pit. The same way I keep my family in milk and Cheezits.
She would clean up dinner while I play with the kids, and she could be the bad cop who barks out orders while I am the fun parent who my children say they’d pick if we ever got divorced.
I’m not saying I’d get rid of my husband. He voluntarily makes the world’s best pancakes and will eventually unclog a toilet if I leave the plunger somewhere noticeable, like, say, on his pillow.
I’ve even propositioned him about bringing another domestic partner into our fold.
“Why don’t we send away for a hot Brazilian girl (his favorite type),” I’ll say. “Someone who loves to cook, mop and food shop (my favorite type) and who is barely 18.”
Hell, she can walk around the house topless, in a thong, as long as she’s dusting it, and if she has any extra energy when she’s done with all her domestic duties, she can “dust off” my husband too (wink!) Whatever it takes to keep the house running happily. I’d even move into the guest room and give this young wife my place in our marital bed. (My husband snores and pulls at the covers—I’m desperate for a good night’s sleep.)
You would think my mate would be rushing to place bids on HotBrazilianMailOrderBride.com, but he has yet to take me up on my generous offer. Apparently, I am more than enough woman for him. Damn. I should have married a Mormon. Or forgone marriage and instead join a coven.
This sister-wife dream is something my best friend and I bring up a lot when we’re bitching about having to wipe another counter or butt crack. We know that, together, the two of us could run one hell of a household. She could make all the meals one week, while I take over the next, and we’d split all the kid-wrangling and social planning duties evenly and efficiently with a color-coded command center that rivals NASA’s. Plus, each of us would be allowed to actually take a sick day. Without having to clean up our own puke. She and I have even pinkie sworn that if we ever get divorced or our men kick the bucket, we are totally moving in together and living the dream. And most wives do outlive husbands, so there’s a sporting good chance.
I don’t want to discount our husbands’ contributions, but honey, that all can be outsourced. Pool boy. Lawn boy. Handyman. Preferably a team of 21-year-olds with chiseled pecs who are easy on the eyes and curious about Cougars.
My bestie and I aren’t about to expedite the inevitable by switching from lean to red meat, lacing our husband’s drinks with antifreeze or taking them to countries that harbor terrorists. Though all of these are ‘solutions’ we have discussed.
Unfortunately, we both respect our marriage vows and how much our kids love their daddies too much to really put them in harm’s way.
But I think my kids could learn to love a second mommy too. I know I would.
They say, Happy Wife, Happy Life. I’d like to second that! Husband, please?