I realize that in recent posts I have been all “I luuurve my family” and “my husband literally has the knees of bees” and I stand by those posts. I think it is important to celebrate the people in your life, unapologetically. So, don’t consider this an apology. It’s not. But in my (facebook) mind, I often see comments about family life and photos of the couple and their kids modelling for the Autumn/Winter Boden catalogue and I think, “Ohmigosh, they never want to punch their spouse in the neck” and then I feel guilty. Because I do.
Right now the skin beneath my nose has been scraped from my face. In merely 18 hours, I went through a whole box of facial tissues. A whole freaking box. My ears are clogged. My nose is clogged. Until it decides to finally release the mounting pressure and rewards me with the following cycle:
- Blow again
- Pinch my sinuses like it improves the situation
- Hack up any draining grossness for 3 minutes like an 84 year old with emphysema. I know, I passed that exact 84 year old today and it was like having my cold recorded and played back to me.
This has been going on since Monday. Being the genius that I am, I decided that I would pick myself up, persevere and go into work TO DELIVER A COURSE. What have the British done to me?
So, of course, last night around 3.30am, The Duchess decides that she is not happy with the thread count of her sheets. (400?! Who do you think I am? A pauper?) Normally, I’m happy to be the one that makes the effort to settle her because I work part-time and well, I’ve had the “goods” for the last 12 months. But I sat holding her and she’s tossing and turning and complaining and I need her to settle because if she doesn’t, I will die. My sinuses will actually explode out of my face.
I gently reach over (I poke him with two fingers in a stabbing motion) to rouse The Native, who tends to sleep deeply.
“You have to take her. I feel awful. I can’t do this.”
And that is when my patience left my body and didn’t return until morning. All I remember is sending him down for milk. He came back up with it in an actual glass. I am appalled by actual glass. He tells me I said to put the milk in an actual glass. I shout that I don’t care what I said. Get her sippy cup. He then verbally rips my face off, crumples it, and puts it in the glass. He comes back up with a bottle. She swats it away like we have just offered her faeces.
At this point, I think I just handed her over and retreated to the sofa.
In the morning, we said sorry and we talked about how when you are sleep-deprived and sick and dealing with an annoyed baby, sometimes you rip each other’s faces off and it’s kind of okay. We said that arguments that happen in the night count as sleep-talking, therefore, they don’t count at all. Then, we spit on our hands and shook on it and threw our Boden catalogue out of the window.
Marriage at its finest.