Beck Vass: Diary of a drunk husband

The joys of being married with kids. Photo / Getty Images

It's 5.45pm on a Friday night. The kids and I are tired and I have just burned their mini pizzas because I was distracted with bath time.

My husband usually gets home around 6pm but I've been listening out for his car for the past 15 minutes hoping maybe he'll be early tonight.

My phone beeps with a text: "Still at the table from lunch."

He went to a new pub in town and I'd seen him there.

Okay, thanks for that. No need mention that any time in the preceding three hours or anything.

Thankfully the kids eat their pizzas with the charred edges cut off. I eat the charred edges.

At about 6.30pm the kids are throwing their plates around the lounge. I demand they pick them and their leftovers up.

They refuse.

I tell them they can clean it up or our girl, 4, can't have her bedtime music on the iPad and her brother, 2, won't get any books before bed. I give them one more chance. They blow it.

I get them both into bed and walk out. My daughter starts screaming for her music and I tell her she lost it tonight because she wouldn't pick up her mess. She starts crying.

"I want Daddy, where's Daddy?" Well, Darling, your drunk daddy isn't here, but yes, you can damn well have him.

My husband arrives home sloppy and deaf with drunkenness. Ugh. He attempts to help with the kids and asks why I'm grumpy.

I explain: "They were naughty so she isn't allowed her music and he can't have his books."

He goes to their bedrooms but comes back moments later and asks: "Where's the iPad for her music?"

Okay cool. Let's have another night of repeat conversations because you can't remember what happened 30 seconds ago.

"She isn't allowed it."

"Why not?"

"I just told you why not."

"Tell me again."

Ugh. Drunk men are like dementia patients. It's better not to confuse them or make them angry by saying you already told them something. You just have to keep answering repeatedly and wait until tomorrow.

Both kids emerge from their bedrooms. Good one, Drunk Guy!

Husband reheats spaghetti bolognese in the microwave and goes to our bedroom to eat it. I hate him eating in there and he knows it. But I ignore him because I can't be bothered interacting with his drunken needs.

Eventually I make it to bed myself where I find spaghetti and a large greasy stain on our grey linen duvet cover and I fully lose it.

"You #^@%!^$ drunk! You've got spaghetti on the duvet, FFS!"

"I didn't eat it in here, I ate it out in the lounge beside you," he lies.

"Oh you did not!"

"What? You can't remember me eating beside you?" Smooth. A drunk guy lying to his sober wife - because that's going to get you out of trouble. Good one.

"Yeah because it's ME who can't remember," I tell him.

Finally, he detects my sarcasm, gets up without a word and goes downstairs to sleep.
Thank you. That's the smartest move you've made all night. You would have only snored all night anyway and dug yourself a bigger hole.

And that's what it's like being married with kids.