When mommies and daddies fight ……..

Last week Kennith and I had a humdinger fight.

EPIC. FIGHT.

We do not have huge fights often.    We disagree about stuff and then I call him names under my breath, but who doesn’t… I mean honestly?

I am not suggesting we skip around saying “love you noodle” and then telling everyone on Facebook how fabulous we are.

On a sidebar note, why do people feel they must tell everyone on Facebook how much they love their husband or wife?

Seriously, get off Facebook, and tell them yourself.

It is a about as sad as those people who phone in to a radio show to tell the disk jockey how much they love their girlfriend/boyfriend/wife/husband/person they are shagging/person they hope to shag, when the person is sitting behind them and you can hear them squealing with delight in the background.

I really do not give a shit how much you love your significant other, you go tell them.  How desperate are you to give the impression you have the perfect relationship when you need to announce it to Facebook …. constantly.

Any the way, I digress…. a tad.

Back to my story – I have been trying really hard of late to address an issue with Kennith instead of using my passive-agreesive-behaviour.

I do love a bit of PAB as much as the next gal.

I have found that standing with a baby on your hip, a glass of wine in your other hand and sighing in a very aggressive manner while your husband plays computer games during the evening suicide hour is not an effective manner for him to realize that he needs to put off the game and come and help with the kids/dinner/bath routine.

The only thing that it achieves is that you start looking too trailer park for your own good.  Husbands behaviour does not change.

So my story really starts here – my AF (periods for the uninformed) was a bit late, six days in actual fact.

Like most (all) girls if your AF is late you start wondering if you might be pregnant.

By 2pm of said day you start thinking you might be.

By 7pm of said day you are starting to suspect you are.

By 9am of the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you are really starting to think you are… for sure.

By 2pm of the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you are really sure you are.

By 9pm of the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you start to fkn panic because you know you are, but willing to wait for the next morning, as no doubt all will be right with the world.

By 9am of the day following the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you know you are.

By 2pm of the day following the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you have thought of a short list of names, have already mentally shopped for a pair of maternity denims, have started to feel pregnancy
symptoms that include sore boobs, swelling tummy, and irritability.

(I permanently exhibit 2 of the 3 symptoms all of the time, so this only feeds my slightly wild imagination.)

I was about 6 days late, and you can imagine how my brain had run away with me at that point.

If not, then let me enlighten you.

It was a boy, I had named him, already worked out where he would sleep, and how work was going to deal with my pregnancy.

I also had already mentally worked out how I was going to tell Kennith, and the total frkn explosion that was going to be and how he would suggest I viist a Marie Stopes Clinic, and I would cry and fall on the floor all prostrate and stuff.

Listen, when I am allowed to run about in my head, people get hurt.

I had popped along for a POAS (pee on a stick test) and it was negative and then my AF started, so I was relieved that I was not pregnant, which I also found odd as I do want to be pregnant (but we leave that for another post.)

I am regaling this story, because granted it has been a very stressful 6 days for me, to Kennith who looks decidedly green while I am telling him the story.  I am gabbing on and on and ……

The problem is that the story escalated to a full on argument that included, but was not limited to:

  • You leave wet towels on the bed.
  • No, you leave wet towels on the bed.
  • You never do anything with the kids.
  • Why can you not stop bossing me around.
  • I can’t go to the toilet in peace while you appear to be able to watch an entire rugby game on a Saturday afternoon, how does that work?
  • I will never change so stop trying to make me change.
  • Who do you think is the maid if the maid is not here and you continue to leave your shit all over the show.
  • You are a douche bag (okay maybe I just thought that).
  • You are a selfish bitch (I am sure that one was said out loud).
  • Fuck you.
  • No fuck you.

Any the way …. it got quite brutal and I must be honest I am not sure what we were fighting about exactly, but the wet towel seemed to be the fuel for the fire.

I actually learnt nothing from that fight, other than …..no, actually I learnt nothing from that fight, and I am still unsure what the point was.

I did learn that fighting with a woman whose period has just started is probably not the best course of action.

The thing with me is that after a fight, I am unable to just forgive and move on.  Resentment and anger lives
with me way after a fight has ended.  I am not really a bury the hatchet kind of girl.

I was so angry with Kennith – not about anything in particular, the fact that he was breathing was sort of making me angry.

I did calm down and I did sort of just “let it go” – but I am glad we do not have those arguments often, because they are harrowing.   I am not sure how people function in relationships where they argue all the damn time.

The next day Connor give me this little note …. shame poor lamb chop ….

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