Caught out on my blog!
Given that I live in a very small fish pond that is Dubai, swim in an even smaller one (my famous compound) and dance naked on tables in yet a smaller one (the Golf Club – just kidding), I’m usually very careful what I write on my blog.
It is not my goal to embarrass or upset people. I try to make sure that those I write about are unable to recognise themselves unless I want them to (muah-ha-ha-ha!) or I’m writing something really nice about them.
But, even with this ethos, I’ve been caught out once or twice. Once was a situation so sensitive I can’t even begin to talk about it here – let’s just say, those blogs were edited very quickly – and, another time, I knew that the person involved was annoyed with me, but she didn’t want to admit that it was her, so I didn’t admit it was me and the whole thing was a stalemate for three years (I believe she’s now left the country. Are you still reading it??).
Anyway, the gist of all this is that I’m usually very careful what I put on the blog. But the other day I got caught out. Massively.
You see, DH reads my blog. I know that. I know that he knows that I know that he knows. He often doesn’t need to ask about my day because, by the time he’s come home, he’s read about it.
But I don’t expect him to delve into the guts of the blog – to read the “About” page, for example. The one that I’d updated some time ago to reflect my new-found contentedness as a stay-at-home mum.
So here’s the story: To date, I still get a bit of leverage at home about being the one who sacrificed her stellar career on the altar of having children.
Every now and then, when I’ve had a really tough time with the children, I bring out the old “It’s alright for you, cocooned in your nice office drinking coffee with your colleagues and popping over to The Ivy for lunch… Oh, it’s so easy to have a job, so much easier than staying at home with these terrors.” (Actually, to be fair to DD, it’s usually just the one terror now).
“One minute I was building an empire, “ I rant, “and the next minute I’m puréeing carrots and singing “Baa baa black sheep” to a toddler while wiping vomit off my Roksanda Ilincic frock and wondering if I’ll ever wear heels again.”
And DH, although preferring me to be at home, is pretty sympathetic. “If you really want to go back to work,” he says, “we could hire a nanny and a driver and a cook and, well… it would take so many people to replace you, darling…”
Even having that conversation – just the acceptance of the concept that I could possibly go back to work – makes me feel like it could potentially happen should I wish it to, so we have it every couple of months.
But then – lying in bed last weekend – DH read something out loud as I pottered about the bedroom getting dressed.
“Now acclimatised to life at home (especially as the children are now seven and three and, let’s be honest, are that little bit easier),” he quoted, one eyebrow raised, “she’s secretly glad she doesn’t have to deal with numpties in the office… Glad she doesn’t have to deal with numpties in the office?” Another eyebrow rose.
That sounds familiar, I thought, with a sense of foreboding.
“And, let’s be honest, the children are that little bit easier,” DH repeated, his eyebrows now so high he looked like a bad Botox job. “And she’s secretly glad she doesn’t have to deal with numpties in the office?” he spluttered. “I rest my case, darling.”
Talk about rumbled.