Do I know what the hell I'm talking about? Apparently not.
I have noticed, as of late, that marriage robs one of all one's dignities and adultnesses. Regardless of how grown-up grown-ups try to appear, one thing remains true: if you spend more than 342 days with someone, they're going to piss you off. You're going to piss them off. It's a fact of life.
What remains, in a good marriage or relationship, is COMMUNICATION. And fuck all if I just don't feel like being adult and COMMUNICATING at that time. Especially in that moment of irrationality. Know what I'm talking about? I regress immediately to say, AGE 2. Let's delve: Have you tried communicating with a two year old? They are completely literal. When dh and I fight? I get like that.
Which would make me, I would say, a BIG ASS hypocrite. And, if y'all've seen the beers I've been putting back lately, because we all know that vodka is the anorexic's elixir of choice, you'd say, "TCWH, you're not kidding about the BIG ASS," and then heartily pat me on the back, because, you know SUPPORT and all that shit.
I fume at the step chirren's actions and then turn around and do the same damn thing myself. Damn them for making me see the error in my ways. Damn. damn. DAMN!
Momma made us ice picks while we were out pogo-sticking today. Nothing like having a big, bouncy stick between your legs to warm you up in between sips of spiked ice tea. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a MOMMA.
I know God made a serenity prayer, but don't they have a parent's prayer?
I think mine would be something like this:
Dear God,
Please give me the serenity to accept that I will be wholly mortified at what comes out of the mouths of babes.
And definitely grossed out when four fingers and two hands with dirty fingernails are stuffed in it.
Please give me the wisdom to know where Momma and Daddy have stashed the bottles so that I might drink til the sullen aliens that we call "our kids" are happy.
And even if they're not, let me be so pie-eyed that their grimacing countenances appear relaxed in my self-induced stupor.
Please grant me the patience to tolerate the mouthy remarks and dirty looks that I have had to staple my hands to my sides (so's not to wipe the looks off of their snarling faces) and gracefully tolerate.
And if I fail that tolerance, please let a mosquito land on their fair cheeks so that I might "swat" it off legally.
Oh. And one last thing? Please help me to remember that they will have children of their own one day, and they will be equally painful in the derriere region, and that I will be allowed to sit back and laugh during those eons of time.
And if they are not to have children? Please let them be teachers.
Amen.
Hee. I'm always accusing J (otherwise known as dh) of behaving like "a giant two-year old." In fact, I did so just 24-hours ago, in an argument I clearly won.
Or, I would have.
Had I not run off to the "store" for some "things."
Anyway--this is my first visit+comment here; I linked from Brando's site earlier, liked what I read, and added you to me ol' blogroll.
Okay. Enough from me.
Now.
Try not to worry about it... one thing I've learned over the years is that not all communication is verbal and although my gender can be easily confused, we'll get it eventually even if you don't actually SAY what is wrong. If the key to marriage is communication (in whatever form that might be) the holy grail of marriage is the determination of both partners to understand what the other is trying to communicate... even if that method is by throwing a 2-year-old style temper-tantrum.
I have learned that you can't rationalize with an irrational person, but I can't figure out what to do when I am the one being irrational. :0
I love the new design. I, not having kids of my own, but having been a nanny for years before, know just what you mean. I live in fear that my mother's curse "Wait til you have kids of your own." will have me waiting out my death in a mental institutiion should it come true. Keep up the coping tho, it will get better :)