In a past life, about a decade and a half ago, I was the mother of three young children.
I was married too. However, my husband was busy establishing himself in a large, hectic big city business world, so we kind of never saw him.
I mean, we did. Some nights after work, he did come home, eat dinner with us, would kiss me on the cheek, pat the kids on the head, and then passed out in front of the tv for a bit before he went up to bed.
Yeah, it was very, uh, romantic.
Actually, thinking back, I’m not even sure how we ended up with three kids. But that’s something I’ll ponder another day.
Basically, in my story I was left alone at home with these three small children to keep alive for about two decades. My husband might remember it differently.
But whatever.
It was all fine.
But, to make things more interesting, we moved to another country.
And then, just as we were getting settled there, we packed up and moved to another.
Now, don’t get me wrong, my husband made enough money for us to live in these strange places and comfortably feed, clothe, and shelter our little family.
And since I wasn’t able to legally work, I became a full-time stay at home Mom.
Which was fun.
Some days.
And it was hell.
Some days.
What it wasn’t, was what I had dreamed my life would be like when I toasted all my friends with shots of vodka the night before we all graduated University and set out to change the world.
But yeah, stuff like this happens.
Doesn’t it?
Well, either way, it happened to me.
So, this is that story.
My story.
Our story.
Buckle up.