Last Saturday, after we'd had a full week to recover from family and friends descending on our house to wish my husband a happy birthday, we finally had a "normal' weekend back to ourselves. All week I was looking forward to a nice, just-the-three-of-us weekend with our usual errands, taking in some college sports, just generally chillaxin' in the chill zone (kudos to those who correctly identified that reference). And then on Thursday night I came down with a shuttering case of the stomach flu. For 24 hours I rotated sleep, trips to the bathroom, chugs of Pedialyte, doses of Tylenol and cupfuls of Pepto. All the while, my superfantastic husband cared for Baby. Saturday morning comes and I'm, thankfully, feeling great. I nurse Baby and decide a family breakfast outing is in order, since my stomach has been completely emptied and is in desperate need of a refill. And THEN what happened? This all sounds innocent enough. Where the hell is this story going, Moleskine Mama? Well, I'll TELL you. After we took in about an hour of a local college sporting event, my husband dropped Baby and me off at home and headed back to watch the rest of the game. I asked if he was going to be gone long, and he nonchalantly said probably not, he'd probably be too tired to stay out long. HOURS tick by. I text him asking him to pick up some dinner on his way home. I ask when I might be expecting food (if this post tells you anything about me, it's that I am ALL ABOUT food...apparently) to be in my stomach. Husband says at least an hour or two. FOR REALZ? This is when my ugly completely-irrational-I-do-everything-because-I'm-the-mom-overlord beast rears its nasty head and I snippily text back, "Don't bother, I'll be in bed by then." Husband doesn't let on that he senses texting tone and just replies, "Sorry." I sullenly wash bottles, yearn for some fast food, but out of principle refuse to eat anything in the house. Because maybe...just MAYBE...the Husband will show up with surprise! Some food, just in case you were still up when I got home! Watch the time click by, get hungrier and hungrier, mentally refuse to eat any food unless it's of the surprise variety, give up, brush teeth, go to bed, pass out of STARVATION.
Sunday morning comes, and while I, empty stomached and cranky, am changing Baby, Husband cheerily strolls in and asks what our plans are for the day. Ugly completely-irrational-I-do-everything-because-I'm-the-mom-overlord beast surfaces and I snap, "I'M doing whatever I feel like doing for hours at a time while YOU watch the Baby." He innocently asks what that might entail, and I grumpily mumble something about whatever I damn well feel like, who cares. Who knew when he walked into the nursery that he was going to face my passive-aggressive wrath? The poor guy would have been much better prepared had he come bursting in with a pitchfork and torch.
Fast-forward to an almost-silent car ride to church, numerous compliments on how beautiful our baby is, me putting on a smile because that's what you do, and sitting down for our very first New Member Class. Where I am schooled in a good 'ole fashioned MAJOR Catholic guilt-fest. Father J talks about open communication, about how humans really at a basic level just need to speak and to be heard. And an instant sensation of mighty, mighty guilt piles on to me.
Really, people, what freaking bug crawled up my butt that I needed to be so nasty to my husband? AFTER HE CARED FOR ME AND THE BABY WHILE I WAS SICK. Commence self-hatred. I'd like to think I would have had this revelation regardless of church attendance (Right? I'm capable of these things...).
After my cloud of unworthiness lifted, I realized that sometimes we just have freaking bugs crawl up our butts. Sometimes we just have DAYS. I just wish there was a way to arm my husband with that pitchfork and torch before I drop the passive-aggressive-snippy-ugly-mood bomb on him.
So here, here, husbands all over the world. And life partners and spouses in general. You put up with a lot of crap (not including the literal crap your sweet babies produce), and I can't thank you enough for your patience, understanding and willingness to chock it up to just a teensy bit of crazy. The teensiest teensy bit.