The last few days have been an exercise in suburban cliché: Christmas wreaths and gingerbread houses, excessive volunteering and a girls’ night out.
I took my kids with me when I had no choice and even when I did.
As it turns out, despite the Giant Three Year Old who in the stress of crowds and chaos gets more Ninja then Zen, my girls are excellent helpers. They know already their legacy of “doing.” I’ll get that Giant Three Year Old there too, I swear.
I ran away this weekend every chance I had.
That Man and I cannot end the fight we always have: the one that makes me the sad guy, and I guess, the bag guy too.
If I complain about all this itty bitty stuff, all this humongous stuff, he worries that I am not “happy” – and that makes him unhappy. I can’t figure out how to fix it – and be honest at the same time.
He is a busy man, important in his field, and he has very little time. He rarely reads what I write here.
Still, I complain too much. He’s my best friend; I need to complain less to him.
Is this a suburban, at-home-mom sitch that I am in, or just the usual stuff of relationships?
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Marriage
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housewifery
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3commentsBrilliant Person Wrote...
I feel weird commenting on this, since it is about us, but I promised I would comment more.
So, I like the Giant Three Year Old when he is in Ninja mode.
The other stuff, it's private.
Oh, I'm not that important.
I've been thinking about this, in relation to you -- and your blog, and of course to me and my whole marriage... Names are important, and I always cock my head to the side when I read "That Man" and I envision your Man, your best friend, your "everything". "That Man" just doesn't capture it, feels too impersonal, like an inside joke that we readers weren't a part of and has somehow lost its humor. If I didn't know you, I might think he isn't who he is, not that I really know anyway.
I have to train myself to do this myself -- to be adoring, flowery, romantic when all I want to do is bitch about the babysitter who clogged the toilet and ate the fucking homemade cookies that I baked for the damn cookie swap. Oh, poor miserable me, with the goldfish crackers smushed into the carpet (again) and the battery in the car dead (again). The purpose of that spouse is to have such a deep friendship that you can bitch about all those things but can also be sweet. Nah, none of us are good at it, doesn't matter what you see when you look out your window.
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