Yesterday I ranted about frustration with my husband. He had allowed our daughter to do something after I said she couldn’t.
I stayed good and pissed for the better part of the morning, but I actually felt better after posting and hearing back from you all who left generous and supportive comments.
While surfing Facebook, I happened across a post from a dear friend who was reflecting on how she never deals low blows with her spouse, and how she thanks her family for this because her mother and father taught her how to fight fair. It had nothing to do with me or my situation, but because all my stupid sensitive senses were on high alert, I took it as a personal affront. I am a bad person because I can’t be more mature when I bicker with my Spouse.
I am setting a crappy example for my children who are going to grow up completely screwed up because mommy and daddy fought. My children are anxious, uncooperative, and angry because I suck at adulting.
I. Am. A. Failure. With a capital “F”.
I held onto these feelings until I was distracted by other things.
Last night, I ended up working late. It is a rarity. My schedule is fairly set in stone because I usually need to be someplace either at the beginning or end of the day with my children.
But a teen in the community had completed suicide and we were opening the doors at our center to support the community. I agreed to stay a couple hours later than usual to be on stand by. It ended up being a very quiet few hours, which was fine. I got a lot of other stuff done, then I went home.
At home I was deciding how I wanted to play things with Spouse. He had bathed Emily, but he had allowed Jack to go out past his 7pm curfew to play with his bud. I was tired and hungry, but Emily seemed sleepy so I figured bedtime would be a breeze and then I could microwave some frozen rectangle of food and get my couch and Masterchef on. Chill. Decompress. Ponder the meaning of life and how gut twistingly terrible it is when a teen takes their life.
Then he disappeared.
As I was putting my daughter to bed, the Spouse just took off to parts unknown. Emily would not settle because she wanted her dad to hug her goodnight and he was no where in the house or yard. I still had not eaten dinner and was starting to spiral out into anger once again.
At 8:45 Em still would not settle and I still had not eaten. He wasn’t picking up his phone so I sent a ragey text.
Apparently, he had gone down the street to watch a ball game at the fields with our son and the neighbors. This seemed reasonable to him, and it seemed reasonable that I would telepathically know where the fuck he was even though he’d not mentioned a word of it to me. Well, where else would I be? He asked like he goes down to watch ballgames at the fields down the street all the time. (He never has.)
I really lost it. He and Jack came trundling home. I screamed. I ranted. I raved.
I called him a Doofus. In front of the kids, no less.
So much for fighting fair.
Now I’m back to being a failure and crappy mom and wife. And I’m still angry. So, there’s that. . .
I stormed off while he put both children to bed. I read the last two chapters of Gone Girl. I watched Masterchef. I stressed about if I was really angry because I am a crazy bitch with raging hormones, or if my feelings were based anywhere in reality. I went to bed fuming and woke up still fuming.
My behavior was not cool. Not. Cool. I get that.
But in all fairness, disappearing on a weeknight at bedtime is not cool either.
I wasn’t angry that he went to watch the game. I’m not “that girl.”
I was angry he didn’t tell me where the fuck he was going. Because I am not a fucking mind reader. All of that could have been avoided by him telling me what was going on.
This morning I’m in a vapid brain space. But I look amazing. I’m wearing a new dress that I bought with birthday money. It has this splashy pink and navy blue flower pattern on it and the cut is very flattering. I’ve had my coffee. The kids are fresh and clean. Lunches are packed and we are ready to face our day.
I think the Spouse knows he is in the dog house because he cleaned up the whole kitchen after the children had breakfast, which is usually my chore.
We have a long holiday weekend ahead of us and somehow will have to get on the same page.