Happy Monday, everyone! I hope you are enjoying your day. Lord knows I am!
Really, how could you NOT revel in a glorious sunny day with a comment like, “Your Attitude Is Piss-Poor and You’re Not Going To Get Away with your Bullshit” from the dear ol’ husband. Truly folks, nothing starts my day off better than being spoken to in such a manner. I get all warm and tingly just thinking about it!
Good times in the Whoorl household.
Look! I even drew you a diagram.
Let me take a few steps back. I awoke this morning at 7:30am to the little guy crying for breakfast. I had fed him at 4:00am, so it was definitely time to eat. My husband got up and offered to feed him a bottle, which I thought was very thoughtful considering I had done the previous feeding.
My head hit the pillow and I sighed a breath of relief…1 more hour of sleep. 5 minutes later, Wito was crying again. I assumed D was warming the bottle and would pop into his room to give him a pacifier. Well, we all know what assumptions make out of us. A couple of fussy minutes later, I cursed to myself, got up and trudged into Wito’s room. The strong (and HUNGRY) guy had broken free from his swaddle and was generally displeased that he could move his feet around, but not his arms. I quickly removed the swaddle, popped the pacifier in and got back into bed. 5-10 minutes later, he started crying again (um yes, STILL HUNGRY) and I lay there thinking, “Why hasn’t D fed him yet? It only takes 5 minutes to warm a bottle and it’s been longer than that…Oh my God, if I have to get up again I WILL CUT OFF HIS BALLS.” D’s balls of course, not precious little Wito’s kahunas!
Annnnd some more fussing.
What. the. fuck.
I threw off the covers, stormed out of bed and stomped out of the bedroom, where I proceeded to stub the living shit out of my toe. Not good, people. Not good.
And do you know where D was during this time?
Rearranging the living room furniture.
People who know D personally are laughing hysterically right now.
Yes, rearranging the furniture. Because you know, THAT takes top priority when your son is crying and your wife is trying to sleep.
I have come to the realization that my husband is living on another planet or trying his hardest to make me run for the hills. And when I informed him of my new realization during our lovely heated discussion at earth-shattering decibels (oh yes, in front of the precious baby who just stared at us, completely confused- if that isn’t sad I don’t know what is), he informed me that I was:
1) Over-dramatic for being pissed that I couldn’t sleep
2) Trying to act like my daily life of caring for a baby is soooo tough, when clearly it isn’t (um yeah, HE. SAID. THAT.)
3) Had a piss-poor attitude
4) Full of shit
And the kicker. Drumroll please. “You better shape up your attitude before I get home.”
EXCUSE ME? Apparently, not only am I all of the above, I guess I’m four years old.
So I did what any self-respecting mother would do, told him to fuck off, wrapped my bloody carcass of a toe in a band-aid and drove to Target to buy pacifiers and mascara.
It’s going to be a great day.
