Just Call Me Debbie

Every weeknight, as Bill embarks on his long commute home, he gives me a jingle.  Sometimes it's around 6 or so, sometimes it's around 8, but most of the time it's between 6:30 and 7.  

Most days he's in the mood to chat.

I usually take these calls on the corded phone in the kitchen, because a cordless is nowhere to be found.  Many times I am smack dab in the middle of dinner.  Or dishes.  I am tired, and ready to decompress for the day after the final wrap-up of the after school chaos, including carpooling, parental supervision of homework and practices of all sorts, dinner prep (with constant invitations for child participation), and clean up.

Bill always asks, "How was your day?"

I almost always respond, "It was fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yep, just fine."

Sometimes I'm the one that does all the talking, mostly about my frustrations and stresses of the day, issues with the kids, or things I need him to take care of... sometime.  Soon.  

On rare occasions, I put concerted effort into being a more perky and interested conversationalist.  Probably not very successfully.

Basically, I'm a Debbie Downer.  I know it, and I'm sure he knows it.

But he calls every night anyway.  Even when he knows I will let a long, slow sigh escape when he tells me he has another 30 minutes at the office (which often turns into an hour or longer).  Even when he knows I'm not good at dropping everything to chat for an hour.  Or even more than 10 minutes.  Even when he knows he just might get an earful, or a long honey-do list.

I'm pretty sure he loves me.  Alot.

I am such a lucky girl.