Tate and I have been going through a rough patch lately, the kind where the fact that we simply breathe in the same room as one another is more than enough to send smoke steaming out of our ears and invisible daggers to be shot from our eyes.
I certainly don’t keep score, NO! NOT ME! Why, I would NEVER EVER count the number of times he’s been late coming home from work, or the number of weapons he’s bought in the past year, or the child-free time he’s had, away from the children, away from responsibilities, away from THE CHILDREN (oops, sorry for the redundancy there), or the socks that, OH MY GOD THE DAMN SOCKS, he’s left lying in the middle of the floor. That would be really immature.
I’m obviously the better spouse in this relationship. *snort*
One of the things that has been bugging me lately is that Tate starts these routines with the kids that I end up having to uphold because I always hate being the bad guy I want to be the cool parent, too I can’t stand the crying from the children. One of the things he’s started is that every night as we go downstairs for bath time, Tate offers to carry Carson on his shoulders. Poor Ella stands at the top of the stairs, heartbroken and wailing. “I wanna ride! I wan *SOB* na *SOB* ride *SOB*!” Tate will call to me, “Ella wants to ride on your shoulders, Mommy!”
Nevermind, I’m just trying to finish cleaning up the dinner dishes or cleaning up SOMEBODY’S socks or *gasp* trying to steal a moment alone. My hand, well my shoulders really, have been forced. I can’t just let her cry like that! She’s immediately scooped up and placed on my shoulders so that her wee little heart can be mended.
Carson, my beloved, beloved Carson, evened things out for me the other night. Occasionally when Carson gets really excited, he hates to take a break to use the potty. Sometimes he has a little accident before getting to the toilet. The other night, atop Tate’s shoulders, Carson had one of those little accidents and peed on Tate’s neck.
Man I love that kid!