by Redneck Mommy • Monday, November 6, 2006
When Boo and I decided to forever tangle ourselves together in wedded bliss, we never gave much thought to what that meant. After all, we were young, in love and invincible. How hard could this marriage thing be, when both of our parents, all of our aunts and uncles and our grandparents before us, had mastered the art of marriage and the til' death do we part stuff.
What we forgot to remember when we were fooling ourselves into believing marriage was easy, was that none of our family members were married to me. (Although, my darling hubs does have some first cousin marriages along the way and an uncle wedded to a niece, and of course, his mother is married to her third cousin, but that's a post for another day...)
What Boo and I failed to realize marriage is hard. Especially when you are married to me.
I can be a tad over-emotional, demanding and (he insists) irrational.
(I don't like that word. Especially when used in relation to me.)
However, he may have a small point about some things. I will admit to being extremely passionate, slightly temperamental, and I do have high standards I expect him to meet.
But I am NEVER irrational. (Between you and me, dear internet, I may sometimes have irrational tendencies, but let's keep that on the down-low, shall we?)
But just when the hubs and I thought we had this marriage thing down pat, he changed the rules on us. He got a job that separates us for extended periods of time.
Which leaves me alone, with my dog, to try and raise our children.
(There went any hope for those two not spending copious amounts of time and money on a therapist...)
Just when I've adjusted to living life as a single mom, with only our odd phone calls to remind me of the love we share, he switches it back up, and comes home for a few days.
And then leaves again.
I'm having trouble adjusting. When I want to hang on to his sleeves and beg him to stay, using sex as a bribe and offers of gourmet cooked meals (cooked by some one other than me, of course) there is another part of me that is saying "Go, good riddance, leave already." I'm tired of sharing the remote, shaving my legs and trying to cook something other than Kraft dinner.
Inevitably, he leaves, and I'm free to grow enough body hair to resemble a small yeti, and that should make me happy, right?
The problem being a small, hairy yeti who is free to cook as much K.D. as she wants, is that she misses the laughs, the dog-breath (and I'm not talking about the World's Greatest Dog's breath), and the mattress dip.
That and he takes out the garbage for me too.
Hurry home, big guy. And bring razors. Your yeti will need them.