(Diary entry 26th June) Now I consider myself to be a pretty neurotic kinda guy. On my big days, I have been known to make Woody Allen in Annie Hall look like Owen Wilson in Starsky and Hutch. I thought I was at least the most neurotic person in our house. That was until tonight.
I’d noticed that my wife had “looked in” on the sleeping Isobella a little more often than usual.
“Are you checking,” I asked,”to see if her feet are getting any smaller?”
“No,” she replied. ”I was…”
The pause was thunderously Pinteresque.
“You were what?”
“Nothing…”
“What? Tell me.”
“Nothing…”
We ping-ponged this back and forth for a short-ish rally until Karen became more confessional:
“I was… well, do you do this? You probably do. It’s not just me, is it?”
“Do I do what?” I was intrigued.
“Do you go in to check that she’s still breathing?”
To be honest, even to me, the King of the Neurotics (a crown that I fret about losing on an hourly basis) that seemed a little excessive. Through a snort of derisory laughter I said, “No! Of course I don’t!”
But the thing is: I will now. Seventeen, forty-one, a-hundred-and-twelve times a night I will, from this moment forward. Now that the notion has been presented to me, I can think of little else.
Nice one, Karen. Thanks a lot.
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