1. Ugh. I just hate giving you shots.
2. I think the air conditioning may be broken. Again. (It's not. You just have to turn it on for it to work.)
3. It's your turn to change the poopy diaper.
4. If we have twin boys we should name them "Sir" and "Topham" and collectively call them "Hat."
5. Our next child should be named "Bandit Northwestern." Or if it is a girl, we should call her "Hillstrand." (Can you tell we're a little addicted to Deadliest Catch?)
And the worst thing ever to say to a crazy person all hepped up hormones with a sore heiny:
6. When are you going to get around to doing the laundry?
(The last is particularly annoying when the laundry has, in fact, been done. It's just this time I put it away instead of just letting it sit folded in the laundry basket for a week or so.)
All of these statements have been said to me. And all of them have made me cry, cuss, and drop on the floor in a puddle. I think I may have even thrown a hanger at Sloan when he asked about the laundry.
And then when at church the call to worship is the passage where Jesus says, "Come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest..." be prepared for the floodgates to open. Because people, I am weary and I'm what Sloan refers to as "primed to the pissed off position."
What is most difficult is that sometimes I am aware that I'm over-reacting, but once again, the knowledge of my own lunacy in no way stops me from being insane. In my mind, I may be thinking, "He's just not aware that I've hung up all his clothes," but instead, what spews out of my mouth is an attack on my dear husband's ability to take care of himself and oh yeah, his entire character. I think I even doubted that he knew who his father was, if you know what I mean. And I don't know how much of this can really be attributed to the hormones. I think maybe that deep down I'm just a mean person.
And let's talk about pregnesia, people. I'm not even pregnant yet and already I forget what I'm talking about mid-sentence. Which makes yelling at your husband pretty difficult. Okay, not difficult for me, the yeller, but for him, the yellee, to understand just what the heck I'm ranting about this time.
The sweet man apologized to me in regards to the laundry comment, saying, "Honey, I'm sorry I was such a jerk this morning. You're a wonderful wife and by the way, you are pretty."
My response? "That's not good enough. I want you to describe to me exactly the ways in which you are a jerk." WHAT?!? What rational woman poo-poos being told she's pretty?
I knew I needed more Valium. And Sloan could use some too.
It's a good thing he is out of town until Wednesday. I'm scared I might go all Liza Manelli on his ass.