Caleb and I are now 61 hours into our fight. You know things are really bad when you watch "War of the Roses" and instead of laughing, your stomach turns, and you get so disturbed that you decide to watch "Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure" instead.
We’ve been speaking, joking, laughing. We’ve half-heartedly held hands, and we’ve even talked about his smoking dilema. But he’s still mad at me, which, in turn, makes me still mad at him.
Yeah. Still mad at me. Why? Because I didn’t completely finish the laundry yesterday–the one thing I guess he really wanted me to get done. He came home after being gone for 9 hours and the first thing he did–I shit you not–was to open the dryer and check to see if I had folded the clothes. I don’t think he even said "hi" to me.
I finished one entire load; I just forgot to take the other out of the dryer, being as I got about 2 and 1/2 hours sleep the night before, and since I was so busy taking care of the baby/picking Mia up from school/cleaning up after Mia/reading to Mia/playing with Mia/taking care of the baby/planning Mia’s Pre-K Christmas Party with the over-zealous co-room-mother/getting out Christmas ornaments/working on Christmas cards/cleaning the kitchen/taking care of the baby/vacuuming/dusting/straightening the living room/taking care of the baby/letting the dogs in and out of the house a million times/getting my shower finally at 4:00 p.m./washing my hair for the first time in 3 days/putting on make-up to look pretty for my husband for the first time in 8 days/and just generally being my *lazy ass self*, and OH, taking care of the baby.
I can’t believe I didn’t say the word "fuck" in that whole paragraph. Not even once.
I get so depressed when we fight, even when I know deep down that I’m basically right and he’s basically ridiculous. I mean, the way he explained it today ("I’m doing my part at work outside the house–the least you could do is one load of laundry.") made sense…assuming I do absolutely nothing around the house on a daily basis. And I do appreciate everything he puts into this family and this household, and I can understand how stressed out he is. I can even understand why he sneaks cigarettes here and there–hell, I’m so stressed out that I’ve been tempted to start smoking them myself. So I take it back about him being basically ridiculous. Strung out over something he shouldn’t have even concerned himself with to begin with? Maybe. But not ridiculous.
I could dwell on how silly it was of him to get so worked up about the laundry in the first place–it is, after all, "my job", and he need not worry about exactly what time of day a certain load gets folded. But instead I find myself upset with…myself…for not remembering to fold the damn clothes the second they were done.
So anyway, when he came home and slammed the dryer door in pissed-off huff, I instinctively went into fuck-you-in-a-goat’s-ass mode, and that didn’t fly over too well with him…and things went downhill from there. I’ll be the first to admit my attitude sucked last night–and that’s probably why he got that "ungrateful bitch vibe" from me.
I’m sorry; I meant to convey the vibe that says "Hey asshole much? Are you fucking kidding me? Stop freaking out over the laundry. Look, I’m folding it right now, see? Calm yourself. Sit. Would you like a sandwich? A beer? Look at all the other things I’ve done around the house today. I know you can’t really tell because the dog hair replenishes itself every 5 minutes, but I vacuumed. And in case you were wondering, I’m not mad at you for smoking. I’m not even mad at you for being mad at me because you thought I was mad at you for smoking. It’s fine; things will get better. I’m just as stressed-out and worried as you are; but I’m here for you. And I was hoping we could make sweet monkey love later on tonight…wait, did you seriously just ask me if I had really dusted? Bitch please. Get your own sandwich, and fuck no, I’m not going to hang out with you on the couch while you give me silent treatment. I can’t fucking believe this shit."
I got a small reprieve today when we went to pick out and chop down our tree. I was on a Christmas high for about 3 hours. Nothing puts me in a good mood like putting sparkly balls on an evergreen. But alas, the thrill wore off, and we were back to our pissy selves before lunchtime. Caleb is now at our neighbor/friend’s house watching football, and honestly, it’ll probably do him some good to get the hell away from me for awhile. I just hope his team wins, because I can’t bear to see him in a worse mood than he already is.
It’s gotta be the cigarettes.