If We Weren't the Absolutely Perfect Couple...

The Unsupportive Louse and I were having an argument the other day…we never actually fight in real life of course, this is just a totally and completely made up story for the sake of a good blog post. Obviously.

During this completely fictional argument, our offspring were present. (Obviously also fictional as if the Unsupportive Louse and I were to fight, we would never, EVER do so in front of our children.)

But, pretending for the moment that this DID in fact happen, and realizing that if we were to argue, it would never be over something ridiculously unimportant or include and miscommunications or become blown out of proportion in 3.5 seconds at all. Ever. Because we (especially me) are very intelligent, rational grown-ups and are capable of having calm, rational discussions. Of course. But if we weren’t so wonderfully mature and expansive and DIDN’T wait until our kids were tucked snuggly in bed to peacefully ruminate over our minor disagreements, it would have gone something like this:

      “I swear sometimes you don’t even know me at all!”

      “Yes, he does Mommy, don’t you, Daddy? He just sometimes forgets, huh?”

      “Yes, cutie, he does, you’re right.”

      “What the hell does me knowing you have anything to do with it?” (We also never, ever, ever swear in front of the kids.)

      “You shouldn’t say hell Daddy. I might say it at daycare.”

      “Well, it’s either that or you’re just totally inconsiderate and don’t give a rat’s ass about us at all. And you’re right, sweetie, we shouldn’t say hell. And I shouldn’t say ass either.”

      “How can you even say that? You know you guys mean everything to me.”

      “Yeah, Mommy, Daddy loves us.”

      “Of course he does baby. But you have a shitty way of showing it!”

      “It’s not because I don’t love you, I just need some time alone sometimes to reboot.” (The Unsupportive Louse does in fact say things like reboot in regular conversation, even if this dialogue is all fake…)

      “Mommy should we make an ID card for me now?” He wants an ID card. Don’t ask me.

      “We need to get the picture from the store first, remember kiddo? And I GIVE you time off, I give you time off ALL the time, besides, when do I get any time off?”

       “You don’t need time off from people, you’re an extrovert!”

      “What’s an eggs-a-vert? NO!! That’s my ID card!!”

      “Baby, give the card back to your brother, no no, don’t eat it, no sweetie, don’t cry.” The tiny drama queen proceeds to have a melt-down in which no other small piece of cut out cereal box will substitute for THE piece of cut-out cereal box. I would like to say this minor temper tantrum interrupted the argument. But as only veteran parents can, we soldiered on. Or, er, I mean, we would have…it’s just a story, not real, all that…

      “What does being an extrovert have to do with needing a break? Just because I actually LIKE people doesn’t mean I don’t need a break sometimes.”

      “Maybe, but not as much as I do.”

      “Can I have a break?”

      ”What? You think you do more work then me? You seriously think you need a break more than me? Of course you can have a break, kiddo, just lay down on the couch with me, we can cuddle, do you want to cuddle?”

      "Why does Daddy not like people Mommy?”

      “Great, thanks, see, you made him think I don’t like people.”

      “Of course Daddy likes people kiddo, he just likes to be alone sometimes to think. Some people like to be alone more than other people, and some people like more time alone than other people. YOU just happen to want WAY too much time alone. Am I supposed to be a single parent here? Oh, our sweet tiny drama queen wants to cuddle too, come cuddle baby.”

      “No, you’re not supposed to be a single parent! Damn it! You know what I mean! I just don’t know why you get so frustrated with me!”

      The Energizer Bunny looks up at me from our cuddle session on the couch, “Mommy, why are you  mad at Daddy?”

And can I tell you that for at least 30 seconds I had no idea. I would like to tell you that that realization ended the argument…but such a realization so deep into the land of pissed off can only cause further irritation. Besides, I'm sure I would have remembered right away if it weren't for the kids.

In other news, we’ve begun a savings fund for the kids’ future therapy sessions. You know, just in case.

I Hit Because I Care

I only do it because I care.

I know, I know, that’s what they all say, but in my case, it’s true! Besides, if the Unsupportive Louse just listened occasionally, I would HAVE to hit him anymore.

You don’t believe me, I see it in your eyes. You’re horrified. But listen, you have to hear my side of the story. By the end, you’ll side with me just like you sided with Lorena Bobbit* after she cut off that cheating bastard’s faithless piece of anatomy. Taught him! (Quick advice interjection here – you can use Ms Bobbit’s knife to teach your own Mr. Bobbit a lesson. Go public with your opinion on her (whether it’s your real opinion or not.) Your willie is MINE, buddy.)

But to get back to the very deserving Unsupportive Louse…at first, as is true with all relationships, he was perfect. Or rather, we didn’t have kids to wake us up in the middle of the nigh to make me realize just how imperfect he was.

But then, post Energizer Bunny, in the middle of the night, it started to keep me up. Constantly. His major imperfection.

At first, I just flicked him a bit. Nothing big, not even noticeable really.

But then, it started to annoy me that he didn’t notice. So I’d flick him a bit harder. Or maybe whack him a bit on the shoulder. Or the back. Or his head. Just a bit. Then a bit more. Just until he rolled over. Because at first, rolling over helped.

But then it stopped helping. Instead of stopping, he’d just start snoring louder. And he doesn’t just snore loud, you see, he snores imperfectly. Every snore is different from the last. Like snowflakes, except without the pretty part.

So then, I had to hit him harder. Just hard enough so he’d almost wake up. Because if he didn’t almost wake up, he wouldn’t stop anymore. And if he didn’t stop, I couldn’t sleep. And if I don’t sleep, I might not be hitting him in bed where no one can see and only in places where the bruises don’t show…I might just start beating him for real for real. And that would be his fault too.

For years I’ve been telling him that if he’d just get some help, I could stop hitting him. And he never listens. Some mornings he wakes up complaining of a headache or a sore shoulder. I assure him if he’d see a sleep specialist, he wouldn’t get the oxygen headaches anymore. And I’m sure the shoulder is sore from all that nerdy computer gaming he does late into the night.

See, like most of the abused, he doesn’t think there’s a problem. Like most of the abused, he doesn’t realize the problem is his. If only he’d listen once in awhile.

I make sure he doesn’t quite wake up so he doesn’t have to live with the shame of knowing how terrible he is to me. Like most abusers, I only do it because I love him so much.

You’re welcome, Unsupportive Louse, you’re welcome.





*Lorena Bobbit is another antiquated “current” event that I have faith all my readers will remember anyway, or google to get the joke. Pretty much the entire story is here though, so you don’t really need to.