Tonight I was on call.
It was horrible.
Every page, basically the same symptoms.
Every parent, thinking that their child was the sickest child ever.
The other 1/2 of the calls not urgent enough to page a nurse over anyhow.
But I answered them all with patience, as if I wasn't drowning.
That noise that my beeper makes, screeching out-- over and over and over-- not stopping.
I managed to throw together some cheese enchiladas, toss a package of Lipton Spanish rice with some water and throw it in the microwave and open a can of beans in between pulling my hair out.
I picked up toys 5 or 550 times in between pages.
I loaded and unloaded the dishwasher.
But mostly I looked forward to 11:00.
When I go off call.
And when Lance gets home.
I was standing as Lance came in the door, eager to vent about my call and engage in adult conversation where I wasn't needed or a record on repeat.
Instead, I was handed his tea and his newspaper, not a word one spoken to me.
(Not our typical routine)
He picked up Maddox and snuggled him and talked to him about his day.
(yes, my kid goes to bed super-late)
Sweet, it's true...
but I just stood there.
Holding my husband's crap.
I told him that there was plenty of dinner left so he could take it tomorrow but he went into asking about a shirt that I accidentally turned pink a month ago.
"Would a magic eraser take it out?"
"How about this oxy clean?"
"Should I soak it in hot water or cold water?"
Maddox chimed in, as if Lance wasn't being annoying enough, to ask me for his Mickey Mouse chapstick 632 times.
I gave it to him.
(Mainly because if anyone else asked me a question, I was going to pull my own ear off.)
Lance and I somehow transitioned the red-shirt conversation into one about money.
But it wasn't a team-worked conversation-- more of a finger pointing, excuse-making type conversation.
Short lived, but annoying nonetheless.
I grabbed a book and climbed into bed.
I am tired.
(my glucose test came back good but I was anemic and was put on extra iron. No big deal, but it explains why I feel like I am back in my first trimester again)
I was looking forward to 11:00 and my break.
Lance didn't bring it home.
I'm going to bed.
Lance didn't stop.
From the utility room he casually says, "I hate this house. I can not wait to go back to Haslet."
[We just agreed to another 7 months here]
"...this house is just not organized, its old, and it is never going to feel like home."
I respond, "I'm not a good housewife when I am pregnant. This house is old. What's your point?"
Which turned into a conversation about me taking everything too personal.
I realized somewhere in that moment that I didn't get the chapstick back from Maddox.
A quick trip to his room revealed a slippery boy reeking of vanilla.
The chapstick mess was actually the easier part.
The shrill- type cry and the screaming for his Mickey Mouse chapstick about sent me over the edge.
But it didn't.
I swabbed him with a towel, put him under his sheets and back to my bed I went.
I hear sup-sups (that sound they make with the inhale after they have been crying) and pitter patter feet coming my way.
[please go to your daddy....]
but instead he climbed up next to me,
pulled my headband off of my head,
and snapped it in 2 trying to put it on his own head.
And the crying re-started.
[I would like to clock out now.]
Lance came in here a second ago to kiss me and ask me why I am so upset tonight....
He was trying to snuggle up to me and chat like we are friends.
We aren't friends tonight.
No sir, we are far from friends right now.
[I bet if we would have started with a conversation about my day, (like I do his as soon as I get the phone call telling me he is off work every night) I would have got to skip the part where I felt like a servant, as if my job-- was just a cup of coffee, like a bad housekeeper, a poor excuse for a mom, and a wife-- unable to organize and make her family feel content-- and would probably be sleeping now.]
Amazingly, he doesn't recall the night anything like I do.
He rarely does.
He thinks we are BFF.
.....And I'm thinking about pulling his hair just as he starts snoring. ;)
How blissful it must be to be a man.
How un-blissful these pregnant hormones are....
I would like a re-do.