Previously, when I walked through the door at the end of a hard day at work, or even a lazy day at work, I didn't particularly want to engage in conversation. A riled-up complaint sometimes, but really just what had already been repeating through my head for half the day.
Now, when my darling arrives home, I suddenly recover the art of conversation. I can talk about all the things that have happened all day long, and even though not a lot happens I can spin it out for a while. I can even follow him into the bedroom while he's changing in order to continue my very-much-one-sided conversation.
For some reason, he hasn't changed to be receptive.
The same expression that used to flitter across my features when he started to moan on about a bunch of people I'd met about as often as I could remember their names, now flitters across his.
When I was contemplating taking six months off from the real world to pursue my dreams, I occasionally joked that it was similar to other women taking maternity leave.
I didn't realise then that I too would be craving adult company after a day dealing with babbling children.
(ps Babbling children being my new nickname for myself)