playgroupsarenoplaceforchildren

Tate and I seem to have the same fights over and over, sort of like some jerk recorded us arguing almost twelve years ago and presses play every few days.  Most of these fights are ridiculous and minor, but when you have the same fight enough times, it eventually feels like a MAJOR EVENT.

Three day weekends seem to magnify these MAJOR EVENTS minor fights.   Stupid three day weekends and their empty promises of relaxation and family harmony.  Hmph.  As if.

We own a blue, heat resistant spatula that we always use to cook eggs.  My wonderful husband almost always cleans the kitchen after these special weekend breakfasts, which is, yes, wonderful.  Except that it’s not wonderful when I’m emptying the dishwasher later and find that the blue spatula is still covered in egg.  This has happened every time he’s been in charge of “cleaning” since we got the spatula as a wedding gift in 2001.  I’ve tried explaining (Tate would say nagging.  Potato, pot-ah-to) that the blue spatula must be free of all egg debris prior to it’s insertion in the dishwasher otherwise my head explodes and I become unable to fulfill my wifely duties.

There has been no change in his behavior.  I’m starting to think my tactic isn’t working.

Tate is addicted to soft beverages.  Every morning I find at least two empty cans of Pepsi One sitting suspiciously around the house.  It’s suspicious because I’ve told (nagged?) Tate that when he leaves his empties around the house for me to throw away, I feel like an unappreciated, yet well-trained monkey.  I’ve tried just leaving the soda cans out for him to throw away, but I just end up having twice as many to throw away the next morning.  Threats and passive aggressive text messages go ignored.

Whenever I get on my phone or on the computer, or if I’m immersed in a good book, I’ve been told that I completely block out everything around me.  According to Tate, I’m very good at appearing to listen, nodding, even responding appropriately.  I don’t even realize that we’ve had a conversation until later when Tate brings up something that we allegedly talked about.  (I swear this is entrapment!) The disagreement almost always turns into a full-on argument about the time I spend clicking away on my phone/computer and I get defensive and Tate gets all, “why are you so defensive,” and then I get all screamy about the importance of Words with Friends.

Every night after the kids are finally bathed, read to, tucked in, watered, supplied with specific, hard to find bedtime toys, kissed, kissed again, hugged, hugged again, Tate and I settle on the couch to battle over the remote control and television volume.  Whomever is in charge of the remote control seems to feel that the television show chosen is the only thing worth watching at that moment.  Honestly, neither of us is usually very willing to consider the other’s viewing interests.  I like to watch House Hunters at a nice, low volume.  Tate likes to watch Shoot Em’ Up gun shows at blaring levels.  I’m sure he’d say that I watch Crap and Drivel at ear deafening volumes, and that he watches Important Educational Shows about Home Defense at a comfortable volume.  (He’s completely wrong, but whatever.)

I’m looking forward to the day when I’ll laugh about how ridiculous these tiffs are, which will probably be when I’m old and rich enough after winning the lottery to afford someone to come in and clean up after Tate, and deaf enough not to care that Tate loves to watch the TV with the volume as high as it will go.

What ongoing fights do you have with your spouse/significant other/partner/[insert politically correct terminology here]?

Twice a year, my husband leaves his family to venture into the great outdoors to hunt for wild game.  As he loads the truck with all his gear, I tell him how much I’ll miss him and implore him to drive safely.  With Ella in my arms and Carson wrapped around my legs, we stand by the door, waving as he drives away.  I wipe away the children’s tears and reassure them that Daddy will come home soon.  Then we shut the door and I do a happy dance.

I love my husband, but I really love when he goes on his hunting and gathering missions.   There was a time that I resented his trips, leaving me ALL ALONE with two small babies!  I’d stew the whole week he was gone in anger and bitterness, and when he finally returned I’d practically knock him over as I grabbed my purse and keys as I rushed out the door to my getaway vehicle.

Now that the kids are older and decidedly EASIER, it’s really not so bad for Tate to be gone for a week.

While he was gone, we ate Bagel Bites and Mac n’ Cheese for dinner.  (The Mac n’ Cheese was at least ORGANIC processed food.)  The dryer became my closet because I never bothered to put any laundry away.  Toys were strewn about the house.  We watched movies and ate popcorn almost every night.  After the kids went to bed I indulged in complete unadulterated laptop devotion.

Tate doesn’t expect that dinner should be served piping hot as soon as he walks in the door from work.  He doesn’t care if beds are made, if the house is tidy, or if the laundry is neatly folded and put away.  That’s just how we typically live.  It’s what I DO on a day to day basis.  Tate’s vacations are also my vacations.

By the final day, though, the wrinkled clothes, mess, and diet of processed foods have worn me thin.   Tate typically calls throughout the day as he drives the ten hours home, and I find myself actually excited about his return.   Also?  Slightly panicked.

“Carson!  Help!  We have to get this house cleaned up before your daddy returns!  It looks like a fraternity party gone bad in here!”  I yelp as I look around at all of the granola bar packages and empty soda cans.

“Mommy, what’s a fraternity party?”

“Never mind!  Just help me clean!”

All the toys somehow find their way back into the toyroom and their respective bins.  I turn on the dryer and pray for the wrinkles to be released, then quickly fold the laundry and put it in drawers.  The evidence of poor food choices are hidden at the bottom of the trash bin.  My legs are de-furred (*wink, wink*).

We stand at the door and wave as Daddy pulls into the driveway.  The children practically knock him over as they rush out the door to greet him.  Then we come inside and we all do a happy dance for his safe return.

After searching high and low, Carson is now signed up for t-ball.

Several of the leagues I found online for four-year-old t-ball cost as much as $150.  One HUNDRED and fifty dollars.

I found leagues that talked about “drafts” and “practice” and “hitting coaches.”  Every child needed cleats and a uniform and a batting helmet.

My stomach burned nervously reading about these leagues.   Carson is four!  FOUR!  I just want him to have the opportunity to learn how to play and take turns and maybe get a trophy.

My neighbor told me about a local club that sponsors youth t-ball.  Thirty bucks is the fee, every child gets a t-shirt and a trophy.  Every child plays, they can wear whatever shoes they have.  When we signed up, a man with kind eyes said that the season is a success if every kid learns to at least knock the ball off the tee and if nobody gets hurt.  He smiled and told us that watching four-year-old’s play t-ball is just about the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen, with every kid running for the ball, some kids running back into the stands to their parents after hitting, and the grass pickers in the outfield that watch the balls go right through their legs.

Games start in April.

**********

Tate shows wavering excitement about Carson starting t-ball.  Some days he’s patient with Carson, other days he forgets that he’s four-years-old and not yet Albert Pujols.

Carson also shows wavering excitement.  Some days he’s gung ho and wants to play.  Other days he stomps and throws the bat down when he doesn’t hit the ball as far as he’d like.   I act as referee and remind them both that we’re learning and just trying to have a good time.

For the past several weeks, Tate and his son go outside for a little t-ball practice, where I think they are both learning lessons about baseball.  But mostly I think they’re learning lessons about life.

Whenever we go out to eat with the kids, I usually check out the kids menu and offer them two of the choices.   I purposely don’t tell them if there is peanut butter and jelly on the menu because 1) they can eat that at home and do nearly everyday, 2) I know that if I mention peanut butter and jelly, the kids will not want ANYTHING ELSE offered and 3) restaurant peanut butter and jelly is 450 times messier* than what I serve at home. (*in a non-clinical study, 3 out of 4 parents agree!)

I guess I’ve slacked in this area of husband training because somehow Tate didn’t realize that I had such strong feelings against restaurant peanut butter and jelly.  As he was reading the menu choices to the kids, I was trying to get his attention with lots of throat clearing, adamantly nodding my head “NOOOOO!”, and I was shooting lasers out of my eyes into his forehead.

Sadly, the children had peanut butter and jelly for dinner and I went home covered with little jelly handprints.

Oh hi there!  I know, I know, it’s been days since I last wrote anything.  I attended Blissdom in Nashville and didn’t have a chance to write before leaving.  Normally this wouldn’t matter even one, tiny bit, but this time I left up such an angsty post!  I had every intention of writing something funny or a posting a cute picture of a kid or ANYTHING ELSE BUT THAT before the conference, but I just didn’t get a chance.

As always, from the very bottom of my heart, THANK YOU for your kind words and for your own personal stories regarding my State of our Marriage and rotten parenting worries.   Each of your comments meant such a great deal to me.  One in particular, from Rima, ended with a quote that I ADORE and want framed or tattooed somewhere on my body. I’m leaning towards framed rather than tattooed.

“Let everything happen to you – the beauty, the terror. Just keep going, no feeling is final.” ~Rilke

Is that not perfect?!  Thank you, Rima, truly.

I took your words and heart felt advice and talked to Tate before leaving for Nashville.  I knew that leaving with such a heavy burden on my heart and on my mind would have furthered the rift in our marriage.  In my mind, I planned to sit Tate down and have our much needed talk, but only after I had completely gotten ready for the next day’s departure.  Tate, however, decided to confront ME while I was in the middle of preparations.

Unfortunately I was completing a VERY IMPORTANT pre-conference beauty ritual when he decided it was time to talk.  I had just put whitening strips on my teeth.   How sherioush a convershation can you reary have when you’re wearing whitening shtripsh?  Yeah, I don’t know.  We might need to have a do-over very serious conversation since it was hard for both of us not to laugh with spit and speech impediments flying out of my mouth.

At least it was a start.

I lay awake for hours last night, my stomach in knots, my head spinning, as I contemplated the State of our Marriage.  Tate and I seem to drift further and further apart, both of us in the wrong.  Or at least that’s what I should say on my blog since he’s not here to defend himself.

As the minutes of the still night turned into hours of a panicked night, I grew angrier and angrier as Tate seemed to rest easily, completely unaware that there is even a crack in the State of our Marriage.  Maybe it didn’t even matter that he was sleeping.  Even when he’s awake I haven’t felt like we could really have a heart to heart conversation anyway.  I am continually on a quest to improve myself, as a mother and a wife, trying to figure out ways to hold my tongue and not break every marriage confrontation rule in the book.  And yet he slept, soundly and without worry while I carried the entire burden myself.

I always do.

***********

I woke up in a sleep deprived fog and mentally willed myself to put on a smiling face.  Carson was, of course, in his true form, mouthy and argumentative from the moment I whispered, “good morning my sunshine boy,” in his ear.

I read somewhere online about choosing a word to strive for as your goal for the year.  My word is calm.   As Carson’s protests continued, I kept repeating my mantra.  “Calm.  Calm.  Calm.  Calm.”

Humor sometimes helps to ease the mood and repair rifts that develop between Carson and I.  His humor can be as healing to me, even though it’s in no way his intent.

“My elbow hurts,” Carson whined, as he had whined about every single detail of the morning.

“Well you know what that means, don’t you?”  I inquired, as seriously as I could.  “It means that I’ll have to saw your arm off.”

Concerned, Carson protested.  “But then I won’t be able to hug you and daddy and Ella!”

I hugged him and told him that mommy was making a joke and just wanted him to laugh.

“But mommy, I can’t laugh.  I’m too tired.  And I’m thirsty.”  WHINE, WHINE, WHINE.

“What would you like to drink?  How about some beer?”  I jested, hoping he caught my joke.

“But MOM!  Only people who are OLD year-olds can drink beer!”  He giggled.  “Chocolate milk.  Please.”

Before we left for preschool drop off, I tried to get Carson to take some cough medicine.  He was not having any of it, claiming he didn’t need it.

“GOING TO BED IS ANOTHER WAY TO TREAT A COUGH!” he screamed at me as I chased him with the dose of medicine that eventually spilled all over me, Carson, and the floor.

***********

I wish I could say that the burdens and worries of the State of our Marriage and the lack of sleep and dealing with Carson’s four years of difficult behavior didn’t finally trigger my switch.

Calm?

Not this time.  I lost my cool.  I yelled, in a way that could not be described as calm or using humor to diffuse the anger.

Now I have even more to lose sleep over tonight.

Tate woke up at his usual time to leave for work the other day.  Usually he’s quiet and respectful of my beauty sleep, unless he knows it’s Tuesday and that we usually don’t get out of bed until 8:30.  Then he’s loud and does the whole slamming doors shut and turning on lights while pretending he can’t find his boxer shorts.

This particular day was Wednesday, though, and he was doing a lot of throat clearing and some ridiculously pitiful semi-moaning.  After hearing him not so quietly closing closet doors and not so quietly rooting through his sock drawer, I peeked my head out from under the covers and asked him through clenched teeth, “What’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m sick.  I feel terrible,”  he managed to say weakly.  Moan, moan, woe is me, woe is me, blah, blah, blah.

“Oh.  Sorry to hear that.  Feel better soon,”  I replied flatly.  I’m an asshole, okay?  I’m 50% of the reason that our marriage isn’t perfect.  (Tate is the other 50%, he is also an asshole.)

I closed my eyes and went back to sleep for the two minutes before my alarm sounded, got out of bed, and promptly forgot all about Tate’s complaint of being sick.

Now in all fairness, Tate can be a bit of a drama queen.  It gets particularly noticeable when he’s sick and I, being an asshole AND a very weary mother of two small children, don’t have a lot of patience for his whining and his needs.  He has a history of blowing little head colds and minor illnesses way out of proportion.

So I’d forgotten all about his “illness” until 5:00 when he called me from work to say, pitifully, that he was on his way home.   I realize that calling at 5:00 doesn’t seem particularly significant, but OH YOU WOULD BE WRONG.  Tate very rarely leaves work before 6:30 or 7, he might if it’s a Friday and things are running well, or he might if his family is coming into town, but he NEVER comes home early on a random Wednesday in the middle of the week.

I still wasn’t fully convinced that his illness was little more than a cough and a headache.  I quickly updated Twitter (because that’s what you do in times of fake crisis).

Further evidence for my assholishness.

When he got home, his face was grimaced and he sounded weak.   He slowly trudged to the bedroom and laid down on the bed.  I felt his head and he seemed to actually have a fever, a really high fever.

“I’ll try not to complain too much,” he said as I gave him his Advil and glass of water.

The next day he went to work, but at 1:00 (1:00!!??!!) he called and said that he was on his way home because he was just so sick.  He actually didn’t do his over the top, pitiful “Woe is me, I’m so sick” routine.  He just really sounded like he was actually SICK.

Never in 11 1/2 years of his working life, had he come home that early due to illness.  He immediately went to bed and slept for the whole afternoon.

I think that maybe, just maybe, Tate wasn’t exaggerating this time.