Baby Daddy and I built a house together eight years ago. It actually went quite smoothly. I only had one big fit during the process. That has not been the case during this rebuild.
Because we can’t yell at the mostly faceless insurance or mortgage companies the way we want to, being the incredibly mature adults we are, we like to pick fights with each other. Over essentially nothing. For example, last Thursday morning, it was a dead bird morning if there ever was one.
First off, when I woke up, I had a gigantic zit on the tip of my nose. We’re talking Rudolph kind of pimple. This was the cue to go back to bed and hide under the covers, but I didn’t take it.
Then there was something wrong with our home Internet, and I was trying to finish a report. Baby Daddy has a wireless card, so I got on his computer. When he got back from his morning run, I was sitting in front of two computers switching back and forth frantically. Apparently, this is the universal sign for “chat with your wife.” I guess I wasn’t sighing loudly enough every time I answered him because he kept asking questions. His inquisition stopped when asked one more question than he wanted the answer to:
Him: What are these packages?
Me (distracted, glancing up briefly): Maxi pads.
Him: What?! Kerri! Why are they on the kitchen table?!
Me: Because that’s where they landed when I was digging through my bag.
Him: You’re killing me! Killing.Me.
Let’s be serious, we’ve been married for more than 14 years. I’m not doing the math on months, but it’s not the first time the man has seen feminine products. Granted, they are usually in the bathroom, but stuff happens. They were going back in my bag when I re-packed.
It was clear I wasn’t going to get any more work done, so I went to shower. While I was walking through the bathroom, I felt a sharp pain in my foot. I thought I had a splinter. Upon closer investigation, I discovered I had his hair stuck in my foot! His actual hair had gotten stuck splinter-like in my skin. Apparently, he’d shaved the back of his neck and there were some stray hairs on the floor, and one of them pierced my skin. I got my tweezers and removed it.
I confronted the hair-grower responsible:
Me: Your hair was stuck in my foot.
Him: How is that even possible?
Me: I don’t know! But it hurt! And it was gross!
Him: You made that up.
Me: WHY would I make that up?!
Then I started to laugh. So did he. He hugged and kissed me.
Me: I hate this. I mean, I really hate all of this.
Him: I know. I hate it too.
Me: But it’s gonna be ok, right?
Him: Right. (pause) Now would you please get your pads off the table?