Monday, May 3, 2010

"What're you gonna do...SPLASH me??"

So last Thursday night, once again, my husband pulled a Michel and ignored my earnest pleas that he not fall asleep on the couch. (only I didn't plead. and it wasn't earnest. more like a half-hearted suggestion.)

It was totally his night for baby duty, and he swore the night before - without prompting or explanation, really - that he'd have it covered all the way through Sunday.

When the baby stirred around 2 a.m., there was no warm-bodied reassurance next to me that would hear it and get up. So, sick as I was and mommy that I am, I got up. As the baby fussed intermittently, trying to decide if he was waking or not, I may or may not have stood in the dark of my bedroom glaring in M's direction, willing him to wake up and then jumping when, with the baby's next cry, his head lifted off the arm of the couch.

Arguably the damage had already been done: I was up and I was tired and I was sick and I was grouchy. But since my angry whisper wasn't working (I was alternating between losing my voice and sounding like a nasally, hoarse man or a chain-smoking 1-900 operator), I settled for a frustrated silence while I got the baby back to sleep.

Later, when M woke me up because I was snarfling worse than a hayfeverish dragon, when he got out of bed and offered me the twin olive branches every sickly woman needs - Kleenex and Vicks - I decided all was forgiven.

As I tumbled back into sleepy oblivion, I figured since he had helped me resume breathing through my nose, the least I could do is let him off the hook.

[Title quote is from "Lost" (TV)]

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