We're a sensitive bunch. So it gets even tougher when the resentment hits closer to home. As in, it hits in our home.
My husband and I handle this pretty well. We have a running joke. We tell each other to fuck off. It's nice. If he's at home with the boys, and things aren't going so well, I might get a text that reads, "He dumped an entire box of cereal on the couch, but it's under control. Enjoy your cocktails. Fuck you! Love you!"
Such fun!
Because of the nature of my husband's job, I'm more likely to send the "fuck you" texts. He travels and has to stay overnight at least once a week. He says it's boring, but I'm jealous. I've never stayed in a hotel room by myself. It seems like an extraordinary luxury. You mean I don't have to go looking for quiet? Quiet is already here?!
My husband was in Boston last week for work, and I was getting the house ready for the ABA therapist. As I was putting the cushions back on the couch (again!) I became aware of a poop smell. I looked up to see a naked, shit-smeared boy. He was going to need a shower pronto. But before I could stop him, he jumped on the couch. Now the couch was going to need cleaning, too. I got him into the tub, and as I was soaping and scrubbing and cursing under my breath, I could hear the ding-ding of my cell phone. A text. I ignored it, dressed the boy, handed him over to the therapist, and went about getting the skid mark off the couch. Ding-ding! What now?
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| A picture is worth a thousand f-bombs. |
I washed the turd remnants from my hands and picked up the phone. It was a message from my husband! His company set him up in a much nicer hotel this time! He sent a picture!
My response: "The boy just shit somewhere and smeared it all over himself. Had to wash him and the couch. Fuck you and your fancy hotel room. xoxo"
And I was kidding. Mostly.
But it's hard not to get resentful. I know he'd rather be home. I do. I also know that I'd rather he be home, too, so I could be in a hotel room.
He's away again today. We had a doctor's appointment with the sleep specialist and I couldn't find the paperwork. I was in an effin' rage because my husband cleaned the kitchen and moved the papers. Let me repeat: My husband cleaned the kitchen, which he does every night. He also made dinner and dealt with a serious Code Brown. This man is the best. He's a great husband and a great father, but I was pissed at him anyway, because he had to work.
It doesn't make any sense.
On the way to the doctor, the kids were shoving each other and whining and moaning. The boy announced that he had to go potty and promptly began shrieking. What the--? I pulled over and discovered that he had loosened his shoulder belt and wrapped it around his foot. When the seatbelt tightened, it pulled his leg up over his head like he was in traction. He was stuck and screaming and the three of us were yanking and yelling and causing a major scene, until we eventually pulled him free, at which point he peed on the side of the road, bitching all the while.
Was I angry at the boy for messing with his seat belt? No! I was angry at my husband for not being there to suffer along with me.
It doesn't make any sense.
When we finally arrived at the hospital, I was so exhausted, I almost cried. I was sorely hoping this sleep specialist could give us some answers. I'd been up since four with the boy. One problem, though. The hospital screwed up. They made our appointment with the wrong effin' doctor! We have to go back on Thursday at 6 pm--an appointment my husband can make.
Which is what he wanted all along.