um, honey, i'm sorry. like, all of the time.

Am I a miserable person to be married to?

Does everyone take their raging life out on their partner in breeding?

Sometimes I feel so sorry for Brandon.

Sometimes I just want to punch him in the face.

For walking in the house.

For asking me a question.

B: Honey, where is your purse?

AGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Hair flying, flames shooting from ears, head rotating on it's axis.

Me: I'm not Honey.

B: ?

Me: And I'm the Devil. Now kindly undo these straps.

B: ?

I am a terrible person, I know. He is NOT to blame. Honest-to-God, my husband does nothing but try to make me happy.

While I fume.

The reality of the situation is this:

I have realized that while raising twins takes so much more energy and patience than having one baby at a time, it's not even the twins that wind me up throughout the day . . . cranking, turning, pushing, tighter and tighter . . . it's the lack of adult interaction. While many working moms want to be with their kids and likewise, stay at home moms feel trapped and resentful, I am just another mother that loves being at home with her children. But Christ Jesus, can I also have a life of my own? Perhaps the answer is YES and I simply haven't discovered the necessary tools to enable freedom. I have SAHM friends that love me-- LOVE my kids-- WANT to hang out!-- and are sitting at home screaming Lick me! Lick me! while vomiting pea soup-- but where is the energy and determination to pack those babies up and drive somewhere? Where is the will?

Work probably isn't an all-expense paid vacation to Antigua for Brandon, BUT he does have a Starbucks-- WAIT FOR IT!!!! . . . -- in his building. He has a bathroom where he can poop in peace. He is surrounded by adults. . . that brushed their teeth within the past twenty-four hours . . . that are over the age of, um, eleven months. . . none of which are wearing the same pajamas that they put on two weeks ago. While this is a monotonous droan of a daily routine for him, I can't help but to envision frosted gingerbread cookies and passion fruit spritzers served on a bed of Johnny Depp.

Sometimes, he walks in the door, and he is the only human being in which I am allowed to unleash my frustrations. Probably because he is the only human being that I have seen in four months. Save the children, of course-- oh, and then there's my mother-- three people that demand and deserve my smiles and sweet daisyfarts.

And so, I am a bitch to my dear husband.

I can only hope that you are too.


(to your husband, not mine-- i would hate to have to kick your ass.)