I have a theory that the very thing that attracts one to another is ultimately what will repel one or both at some point.

When the kids were little I loved having Bill home during the day. He is a jeweler and since his workshop is directly downstairs he is always just a scream away for help. My intense boys, just two and a half years apart, ran me ragged and sometimes another pair of adult hands was the only things stopping me from running out and never returning.

Now the kids are at school all day and I swear just the sound of Bill’s footsteps on the stairs is enough to make me grind my teeth. Instead of enjoying lunch together I would rather read a magazine while eating leftovers cold from the fridge.

Rather than have adult conversation I prefer doing my workouts in front of the TV losing count of my sit-ups as I watch sitcoms from the seventies or a rerun of last night’s “The Daily Show.”

There are definite advantages to having Bill work from home. He can take the children to school, and walk the dog. He can pick up one kid as I head in the opposite direction with our other one. He can ride bikes with the boys before dinner. He can make dinner.

Still, I find myself feeling irritated and ungrateful. I hunch over my desk rearranging files into different piles, as he lies on the couch looking at a magazine. I schedule extra-curricular activities that will keep the boys separate from each other and enriched at the same time. Then I pay the bills while planning play dates. Trudging through my Ground Hog Day of a To-Do list is bad enough without having an audience. Though technically he is working. He’s getting ready to do a casting and is waiting for gold to arrive.

The worst part of our “togetherness?” The second I start to write I find him right behind me.

“Want to walk the dog with me?”

“Mmmm, that’s OK.” My eyes don’t leave the computer screen but my hands freeze just above its keys.

“What are we having for dinner?”

It’s 10:30 and I have not digested my breakfast. I have yet to figure out how I am going to manage to escape for lunch to get a roast beef sandwich and eat it in my car in front of the library. Which is my best chance for writing quietly today. The fridge contains leftover spaghetti sauce but eating that involves more work than I want. Transferring it to a pan. Heat. Time. Cleanup. Not to mention the pressure to make lunch for my husband.

“Umm, could we talk about it later?” I try to finish the sentence I had been typing before I was interrupted.

“Are you going to the store?” Oh, God, is he still talking to me?

“Yes!” I answer sharply. Shit. If I go to the store for groceries I will have to return home to drop them off before heading to the library with my sandwich. Or I could get my sandwich first and go to the store later when I get the kids. Perhaps I could drop off the kids and then run to the store for dinner stuff.

FedEx is at the door and Bill signs for his package. Finally! He leaves to take the dog for a walk. I take a long breath. I have twenty minutes until I hear the jingle of her collar and the clunk of the gate.

I must be gone before then.

I gather my notes, laptop and water bottle, bending down along the way to pick up stray socks, pants and underwear, discarded mere inches from giant hampers. In the bathroom I stop myself from looking at my reflection for fear of noticing too much. My real concern about LASIK surgery is that the mess will be vividly clear.

I used to be thrilled at the constant togetherness my husband and me shared. I was amazed at how well we got along being around each other so often. I couldn’t wait to see him.

Lately it’s more like, “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?”