Despite watching years and years of daytime/self-help-style talk shows like Donahue, Oprah, and Dr. Phil, and learning that you cannot expect people to read your mind, this is exactly the trap I set for my ever-suffering husband yesterday. Despite my husband’s kind offers to take the kids out for the day to give me a break or to do anything I could reasonably imagine, all I could muster in response was a mournful and sigh-laden, “I don’t know.” **shrugs and pouts**
I swear I don’t know how he stays married to me. I am insufferable!
In some sort of defense of myself, I do have several reasons why I didn’t jump at Tate’s offer to make himself and the kids scarce. First, I’ll admit to being completely ashamed that I’d rather not be around my children on Mother’s Day. I feel like I must have some sort of mothering flaw to want to send my children away on the the ONE day that celebrates mothering them. Aside from my inherent flaws, I also know, well I at least hope, that solitude will not be my solo goal for future Mother’s Days. One day I won’t spend every waking second with them and I’ll WANT to spend a special day like Mother’s Day with my kids.
I was also afraid to take Tate’s offer of solitude because I was afraid that I’d answer too gleefully. “YES! Go AWAY. Go FAR, FAR away and don’t come back for hours. Leave me the hell alone! Amen! I don’t have to spend the day with you SUCKAS! I’m FREE! FREEEEEEEE!”
So instead I moped and sulked and heavy sighed. My logical self kept telling my asshole self to just come out and tell Tate that yes, I would really enjoy spending the day alone. My asshole self kept telling my logical self that Tate should JUST KNOW that I want to be alone, since I was obviously sending him all sorts of signs.
Thank goodness my logical side gave my asshole side a swift kick in, well, the ass.
I finally told Tate that it would be really nice if he and the kids left for awhile. Without complaining, Tate got the kids ready and they left for the afternoon. He even took them during their afternoon nap, which in and of itself makes Tate a SAINT.
While they were gone I caught up on this season of the best of trash TV, The Hills, and watched a few episodes of WE’s High School Confidential (thanks for tip on this show Shelly!). I also peed blissfully alone which was truly thrilling.
When they returned, St. Tate informed me that he’d made the executive decision to make me a fabulous dinner. Without any help from me, he grilled ribeyes, roasted asparagus, and made a spinach salad with warm bacon dressing. For dessert he made ice cream floats. Then he cleaned up the kitchen and folded laundry all by himself while I enjoyed a glass of wine.
Apparently St. Tate actually can read my mind.