Rage Against the (Sewing) Machine

My husband is a good guy. A good husband even. But this evening I could cheerfully stab him with a fork.

He seems to be stuck in some freaky 1950's microcosm where he believes that his responsibilities are over when he walks through the door of the house. Not exactly the helpmate one might wish for. It all started off innocently enough. He was cheerful when he got home from work. He'd had a good day and doesn't have to work tomorrow. He suggested we order a pizza. Nice. I love any meal I don't have to cook!

Things started going downhill when he got back from picking up the pizzas. We were having family date night (a movie and pizza on the couch). He came in, fixed his plate and sat down on the couch. Then he got all miffed when I had the audacity to make him wait while I got the kids' dinners ready. Grrr! So sorry I want to feed my children a vegetable or cut their food into smaller pieces so they don't choke to death.

Dinner goes without (much) incident. Z had been hounding us to put "ornderments" on the tree, so we let her put on the non-breakable ones. When she was finished, she came over and flopped on the couch next to T. Not one to be left out, Q walked over and leaned against his legs. Sweet, right? Well, T gets up and huffs about going somewhere where people aren't crawling all over him. Uh, what? YOU ARE A PARENT. YOUR CHILDREN ARE GOING TO CRAWL ON YOU. Perhaps this is a newsflash to him.

At this point, it was bedtime anyway, so I asked him to watch Q (who had been bathed earlier after an exploding diaper incident) while I gave Z a bath. "Oh, all right. But hurry. I was thinking about going to bed." It was 8:00. Poor pitiful Pearl. He was too tired after his long day of making phone calls and writing reports to sit on the couch with a 22-month-old. Really?

Let's compare days, shall we? Up at 7:00, make breakfast for everyone, put in a load of laundry, all with two kids and two dogs under foot. Create gift tags for Z's gifts to her classmates, print, cut, attach said tags to a dozen ornaments. Box up Christmas Crunch for Z's teacher and wrap the rest of her gift. Pack up cookies for the class, Z's (late) homework project, classmate gifts and teacher gift.

Hustle kids upstairs and get both dressed, including doing Z's hair. No time for a shower! (When was the last time I showered?) Take a bird bath standing at the sink, throw on appropriately Christmas-y clothes, slap on some make-up. Herd children into the car. Speed to school because despite your best efforts, you are running late. Again. Remember half way there that your camera is not in your purse. No time to go get it.

Arrive at party as other kids are starting to sing their Christmas songs. Corral Q, who was stealing the show and/or distracting the class. Help distribute food. Put gifts and cookies into cubbies. Keep Q from running out into the hall. Help clean up. Drag reluctant offspring to car once party is finished.

Drive home. Put uncooperative children down for naps: reading, rocking, singing, shushing. Re-hang garland on tree. Address 90(!) Christmas cards and 11 packages. Surf a little. More laundry. Find Q standing in his crib with poop running down his legs (we've got that constipation problem beat!). Attempt to clean him up on the changing table. Give up and give him a full bath in the tub. Prepare snacks for grumpy post-nap babies. Scan photos from others' Christmas cars for digital photo album.

And T says he's tired?

After I got the kids down for the night, I came down to start on the housework I had been putting off all day. T shuffled off to take a shower. (Sure, I can't remember the last time I showered and he bathes at least twice a day.) He redeems himself a little later. He came down and gave me a hug as I was doing dishes and apologized for being tired and cranky. He then asked if I was coming up to bed. I told him that I wasn't because my kingdom was a disaster and I needed to clean. Then he blew it by saying, "I just walk around the house with my eyes closed, these days. There is just no way you can keep it clean," and he walked back upstairs.

What? No way to keep it clean? Really? Maybe you could put a dish in the dishwasher once in a while. Or pick up a toy. Or, god forbid, change a diaper. Aaarg! I was seeing red. So he went off to bed and I stayed up and cleaned the kitchen. And living room. And did laundry.

And blogged. Thanks for sticking with me through this rant.

Since I am feeling all rant-y, it makes me wonder if my meds need tweaking. (My depression manifests as anger.) It is a stressful time of year. That's the sucky part about The Crazy. It makes you second guess yourself. Was T really so unreasonable? or was it just the depression rearing its ugly head? I'm pretty sure it's the former. But I'll pay closer attention.