Christmas Troubles

The Christmas season didn’t really turn out the way I was hoping.  This was the first year in eleven years that I didn’t have to travel for Christmas, and I was so sure that I would have so much more time on my hands without the packing and the all day driving.  The boys and I would do some really neat homemade Christmas decorations.  We were going to bake cookies or candies.  I would have everything done before the week of Christmas.  Unfortunately, I forgot that A) I drag the boys to my parents most nights of the week because we love spending time over there and B) as the eldest granddaughter and only daughter I was obligated to help bake cookies every weekend from Thanksgiving to the weekend before Christmas, plus a few extra days at my mom’s.  (Not that I’m complaining; I love baking; and I was officially responsible enough to do more than sprinkle sugar on the cookies.) 

So other than the ornaments I forced the boys to make for gifts and the ornaments and few bake goodies I made for gifts, we did no crafts.  I was also cutting it close on wrapping and buying the last minute gifts.  Because of a bank issue, I had to wait for the Christmas bonus to come in on the afternoon of December 23^rd, meaning I had to buy toiletries and three last minute gifts on Christmas Eve.  Imagine my excitement.  But I made the best of it, moving my cleaning days up and working to make the house as spotless as one that has two tornadoes running through it, so that we would have a good background for pictures.

So on the night of December 23^rd, I began wrapping presents after the boys were put to bed, and The Husband watched that damn NFL Network.  Halfway through the wrapping process, I ran out of tape and began to improvise. 45 minutes after the boys were in bed, I heard this.

The Husband: Are you finished wrapping?

Me: No.  I ran out of tape.  (Was this an offer to help?)  I’m working on what I can.

The Husband: Oh. (No.)

45 minutes go by as I work to get more presents ready without taping tags to the bags.

The Husband: Would you like me to go run and get you tape?

Me: No.  I have to go to the store tomorrow to buy diapers, wipes, M’s gift, and the last thing for my mom.  I’ll pick up the tape then.

(Pause)

The Husband: What did you do all day?

WTF.  Now The Husband does hold the belief that his life is much harder than mine.  He has a hard time understanding the work involved with raising two young children, keeping the house free of mice, roaches, and perhaps even dust, cooking nutritious meals and snacks, and doing everything else that falls under running the household.  But never has he ever had the nerve to ask me what I did all day. 

But just over 36 hours before Christmas with a house that needed vacuum, with presents that needed to be wrapped, with a craft needing to be finished, with presents needing to be assembled, with gifts needing to be bought, with toiletries needing to be purchased, with the garbage needing to be put out, with a few toys needing to be put away, The Husband alluded to the fact I wasted a day.  I should have given him both barrels and detailed every last thing I did that day, including cooking dinner and cleaning the kitchen.  If I didn’t need his paycheck so bad, I would have dug a grave.  Instead I took a deep breath.

Me: I finished the ornaments we’re giving out.  I took care of the boys.  We cleaned the house.  I scoured the kitchen and cleaned out the fridge.  I made meals.  I also did a few other things to keep me busy.

The Husband: Oh.  I was just wondering why you didn’t go to the store today when the money came in.

Me: Because it’s two days before Christmas and I would have had to deal with crowds and the boys.  I’m not stupid or crazy.

The Husband: Oh.

I calmly walked into the garage where I kicked the tires a bit and debated if The Husband would know who keyed his car.

Phone calls and partial phone calls from home

Him: Fae!  They wouldn’t eat Spaghetti-O’s.  What kid doesn’t eat Spaghetti-O’s!

Me: Ours?

Him: Ok, I made a rookie mistake.

Me: (pause)

Him: They asked for brownies this morning before breakfast, and I let them have some.

Me: (pause)

Him: They didn’t eat any eggs I made them for breakfast.

Me: (pause)

Him: Why did you hide the diaper bag?!!  Why aren’t Seanny’s diapers in there?!!

(For the record: The diaper bag has been in the same spot since March when we moved in, on the dryer by the garage door.  I stocked the diaper bag before I left.  He didn’t look in the right place, which has been the same place since Sean was born two and half years ago.  It’s even labeled.)

Him: So I made another mistake.  I noticed Evan was running around and holding himself at the park, so I asked him if he needed to go to the potty.  He said yes, but he wanted to go to Grandma’s and Papi’s to do it (because they were going there any ways after the park).  So I moved quickly, got everyone there quickly.  I pulled Evan out, who ran to the door.  He tripped and fell.  He peed.  He was very upset.

Me: I bet he was.

Him: So then we- Guys!  Stop that!  No hitting!  No splashing!  No!  Stop That!  Igottago.

(The Husband decided to bathe the boys Monday morning, and I happened to call at that time.)

Him: So when are you coming home?

Me: 3:30 today.

Him: Real quick.  What time is Evan’s school?

Me: 12:30.  Leave the house at 12:15 to make sure you have time to strap everyone in and out.

Him: Babe, you’re greatly appreciated.

Me: At least for a week.

Berry Pie

Let’s go over this again.  How many pregnancies have we been through together?

Two.

So really you should know by now when I ask with a manic glint in my eyes for something specific, like a berry pie.  I mean a berry pie.  I would settle for a cobbler or a tart.  But I NEED the berries and the crust and NOTHING else.  It’s not my fault.  I’m not usually like this.  Sure, when I send you out for dessert, I expect something with chocolate, but you don’t understand that because you’re not a big chocolate guy.  I settle for what you bring.  Except when I’m pregnant.

So when you rush out to bring me my berry pie, I’m grateful.

But don’t get hurt when I look crushed, when I start to cry, when I see that you brought me a fresh fruit tart . . . with kiwi with the berries . . . with cream . . . with a crust that isn’t quite like a pie crust.  I know you tried.  I know you searched.  But I also know when I mentioned the frozen dessert section as a second resort that you waved me off saying you’ll just go to the pie section.

Don’t laugh when I start to cry in disappointment.  I’m emotional and irrational, and I cry at the drop of a hat.  I’m pregnant!  You try growing a baby, having your body morph in strange ways, be a washed in a sea of hormones.  See how normal you are.

Yes, you did the right thing bringing me a slice of tart to try since I ran away in tears, softly closing the bedroom door when I wanted to slam it (but the boys were sleeping). 

But don’t act hurt that I’m crying.  Of course, I’m going to yell at you.  I just vomited a bit because I started coughing because I was crying.  I can’t even have a good refreshing cry without that stupid cough making me more miserable.  I’m trying not to lose my dinner here with all those healthy vegetables and milk.   

Yes, I’m a big enough person to admit that I’m emotional and appreciative and that I shouldn’t have snapped at you.

But don’t act like I’m a basket case as I whip up a small berry crumble.  I would have done it before if I had the almonds I like using to make a bottom crust.  Yes, I’ll stay up late enjoying it.  Yes, the tart was fine.  You can have as much as you like.  You know what would go great with this crumble?  Vanilla ice cream.  No, we don’t have any.  But I know the stores aren’t closed yet.

Chores

What chore would you magically have done so that you wouldn’t have to do it?

The Weekend

I’ve got some exciting and frightening news. . . .

I’m going on a girls’ weekend!

YEA!

I haven’t been in one since I was first married.  The Husband and I made a pact.  He could go on only two guy trips a year unless I went on two.  Back then I was horrified by the idea of guy trips because I felt that couples should feel want to have fun together.  Six years later, I’m rethinking that philosophy.  Though I’m sure some of you have wonderful spouses that you enjoy spending time with, I just want to kick out The Husband every one and a while.  Ok, I’ll be honest.  A lot.  Moving on . . . .

I’m staying with my BFF, and we and some other friends are going to see New Moon.  I’m going with the same friends I saw Twilight with, and we had a blast laughing at the dumbest things.  So it was only natural that I grab a flight to CA and visit from Saturday to Monday afternoon.  My BFF is crest-fallen, hoping I would come in early Friday morning and leave late Monday night.  But that’s where the frightening part comes in.

I’m leaving the kids with The Husband.  I know.  I know.  I shouldn’t worry.  He is their daddy after all.  He’s been here from day one, but he’s not like your average father.  He’s kind of taken a hands-off approach to this parenting thing.  Sure, he reads to them most nights before bedtime, and he wrestles with them nearly every day.  But that’s it.

This is a man who still hasn’t figured out sleeping in with young children is not really an option.  He thinks my “tight” schedule of eating and naps should be thrown to the wind.  While he criticizes the amount of TV I let the boys watch and the amount of candy they eat (one piece of Halloween candy a day when they remember), he turns on the cartoons for them when he watches them and hands out chocolate milk whenever asked.  The guy didn’t even know that the G-8 in the upper screen of TV meant anything at all.  He doesn’t know where anything in the house is.  He constantly loses his own shoes, cell phone, wallet, keys, belt on a daily basis.

Last weekend he decided to help me get the boys dressed, and he didn’t even know where their shorts were.  I’ve kept the same dresser organization system since Sean was born 2 and half years ago. 

Yeah, I’m frightened.  I woke the other night in a cold sweat because it dawned on me that they are going to trash my house.  I can bet not a single toy, not a single dish, not a single crumb will be cleaned up or put away.

But I could deal with all this, somewhat, because my parents are just a mile or so away.  We’ve got into the habit of eating with them nearly every night.  The boys love them.  They understand my schedule, my discipline.  Heck, they know where things are in their house and mine.  But somewhere along the way, The Husband believed that he had to prove himself this weekend, hinting at taking care of the boys all by himself without visiting my parents once while I’m gone. 

I should calm down.  I mean, really, how much irreversible damage can he do in one weekend?

Of course, I’ve been away from the boys for only one night, and they were staying at their grandparents’ house.  They were fine, asking for me once.  So maybe they’ll be fine.  Maybe this is all in my head.  Unfortunately it’s all in MY head.

Laundry

Who does the laundry in your house?  If you do, do you put your husband’s (or children’s) clothes in their drawers?

Sean’s Second Ultrasound

I’m sixteen weeks along.  And I remember what defined my sixteenth week along with Sean.  It was his second ultrasound.

I made chicken fried rice for dinner one night because The Husband had brought home a rotisserie chicken home the night before that we didn’t finish.  Evan loved fried rice; it was one of the few things he would eat with vegetables.  But that night he picked out all the chicken, refusing to eat it.  Weird.

Back then, I hadn’t figured out DVD time, so Evan would hang on me demanding my attention.  This meant the kitchen went unclean, the food left out, and, of course, I hadn’t figured out to clean as I cooked.  The kitchen was a disaster, but at least I was spending quality time with my son.

I turned on our gas fireplace and played with Evan on the ground.  The Husband didn’t return my calls, so I had no idea when he would be home.

About Evan’s bedtime, I vomited.  Barely making it to the bathroom.  Weird.  My morning sickness always hit in the morning, unless I ate too much for dinner and went to bed right away.  My morning sickness always let me know with plenty of time to hit the toilet. 

As I placed Evan in his crib, I nearly vomited on him.  Weird again because I usually never vomit twice on the same day.  I finish tucking Evan in bed, beginning to worry.

I went downstairs to clean.  I wasn’t feeling right.  It was too hot.  So I went to turn down off the fire, but Evan had made off with the gas key.  I couldn’t find it anywhere.  I tried to use priers to turn it, but I just didn’t have the strength.  I ran and vomited again.

This time I dialed The Husband over and over until he answered his phone.  Only his administration assistant answered.  And I knew he was at the bar with his employees.

Admin: FAE!!!!  HOW ARE YOU?!  WE NEVER SEE ANYMORE!

Me: Hey.  I’m busy taking care of Evan in the day.  Is The Husband there?  I need to speak to him.

Admin: I MISS YOU!  WE USED TO HAVE SO MUCH FUN TOGETHER!

Me: Yeah.  I know.  But really, I need to speak to The Husband.  Now.

Admin: YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU.  WE SHOULD HANG OUT.

Me: Admin.  Please hand the phone to The Husband.  NOW.

Admin: OH FAE!  YOU WERE ALWAYS SO MUCH FUN.

Me: Fine.  Tell The Husband to call me as soon as he can.  Alright?  Can you do that, Admin?  Can you tell The Husband to call me right away, Admin?

Admin: OF COURSE!  YOU KNOW THE HUSBAND LOVES YOU.  REALLY, REALLY LOVES YOU!

Me: Right. 

Click.

God, I hate dealing with drunks.  If The Husband didn’t call me- I went and vomited again.  Now I was really scared.

I went into the kitchen to clean up, to take my mind off of things.  But as I looked at the chicken carcass, the dirty dishes, the vegetable trimmings, I got sick to my stomach again.  I turned around and ran into the office, digging through my stack of pregnancy pamphlets the doctor’s office gave me.  I pulled out the one that told me what were emergency symptoms or not. 

Vomiting.  Vomiting.  Vomiting.  Here.  “If you vomit more than four times an hour, go to the emergency room immediately.”  Well, it’s been four times in two hours, so maybe I’m safe.  Oh wait-

Make that five times in two hours.

I called The Husband again, getting his voice mail.  Again.

Fine.  I’ll take Evan and go with out him.  Crap.  I had to wash his car seat today because he spilled juice all over it.  I pulled it out of the washer and threw it in the dryer.  Chanting cuss words all the way. 

I vomited again, getting it in my hair and on my clothes.  I turned on the shower, waited for the warmth and walked in.  I cried as I peeled off my clothes, as I washed my hair, as I washed my body, wondering what was wrong with me.  Why was I all alone?  I got out of the shower and got dressed.  I felt the vibration of the garage door.  THANK GOD! 

I rushed out of the room to hear Admin’s drunk voice.  I turned around and slammed the door.  Are you f-ing kidding me?

A minute later the door opened.

Admin came bouncing in and threw herself at me in a bear hug.  I’m going to kill her.

Admin: FAE!!! You’re not made at me!  Are you?!

She gave me a pout.  I took a deep breathe.  I was to weak to kill her.

Me: No.  (breath) But I’m sick.  I need to go to bed.  I need to talk to my husband.

Admin: Oh FAE!  You can’t be sick!  You’re pregnant!  Get some rest!  I’ll get The Husband!

She bounded at the room, and I was eternally grateful I didn’t own a gun.

Minutes passed.  No husband.  I turned off the lights.  The door opened.  The Husband swayed into the room.  F me.  I am going to kill someone!

Me: Did you drive?

So help me God, if you drove, I will kill you right now.  Screw the need of a father figure for the kids.

The Husband: No!  We got a ride.

Breathe.  Calm down.

Me: Where were you?

Perfect, Fae.  Let’s interrogate him while he’s drunk and you’re pissed.

The Husband: We went out for a beer.

Me: More than one beer.  Why didn’t you call back?

The Husband: Because Admin answered the phone.

Me: Did you think that when I called your phone, that I might just want to talk to you.

The Husband: Admin didn’t tell me you wanted to talk to me.

Sigh.

Me: Why didn’t you come up sooner?  Something is wrong.

The Husband: I was hungry.  I ate the fried rice.

Oh God!  The Fried Rice!  It was poisoned.  I have food poisoning!  Crap!

Me: Oh, crap!  I think there’s something wrong with the rice.  I think I have food poisoning.

The Husband: Why didn’t you tell me earlier?

Me: When?  When you didn’t answer the dozen times I called?  When you didn’t call me back after Admin answered?  When you didn’t run upstairs to see me when you got home?  When was I supposed to tell you?

The Husband: I’m sleeping in the other room.

Me: FINE!

He stormed out.  I went to bed.  Then I jumped up to vomit.  I needed to go to the hospital.

I went down stairs where the fire was still roaring, the kitchen was still a disaster, and now the Admin was snoring on the couch.  I pulled out the almost dried car seat cover and struggled to put it on.  I ran to vomit again.  I heard The Husband vomiting in the other bathroom.  I waited for him.

Me: I have to go to the hospital. 

The Husband: Ok.  Let me know how it goes.

He headed to our bedroom.  The son of a-  Wait.  He can’t drive.  I have to drive.  I can’t show up with a drunk, food poisoned husband and a toddler.  Fine.  I picked Evan up from the crib and placed him on my side of the bed.  I punched The Husband awake.

The Husband: Wha-

Me: I’m going to the hospital.  I’m pregnant with food poisoning.  I’m putting Evan in bed with you.  Please comfort him if he wakes up.

With that I left. 

The emergency room was quite empty, which surprised me as the last time I was at an emergency room at night it was crowded.  Granted this was a Tuesday, and the last time was Sunday night.

I had a great nurse that diagnosed me quickly and stuck me with an IV to pump liquids back into me.  It wasn’t long before I was chattering, and he had to run and find extra blankets for me.  He brought out the little machine to get Sean’s heartbeat.  He couldn’t panic.  After looking for the sound for five minutes, the nurse started to worry.

Nurse: Don’t panic.  You’re not that far along, so it’s a little hard to find.  I’ll schedule an ultrasound for you.  Don’t worry.

I smile.

Me: I’m not worry.  How often to do you get a chance to use that thing in here, any ways?

He smiled back.

Nurse: Not often.

He wheeled me in to get my ultrasound.  It turned out everything was fine.  Though they kept me there until I went through two bags of fluids.  It was 5am by the time they let me leave.

As I got dressed, I had to sudden urge to vomit again.  I ran to the bathroom and purged the last of whatever was in my stomach.  I also peed my pants.  Great.  I snuck back into my room and waited to catch my nurse.  He came minutes later.

Me: Hey, um, is there a phone I can use to call my husband?

Nurse: Sure.  Sure.

Me: Um, yeah, I peed my pants when I vomited, and I need him to bring me another pair.

Nurse: Oh.  OH!  Ok, hold on.  I can get you a pair!

He ran off.  Well, he was a little squeamish for being a nurse.  He returned with a pair of scrubs, and I thanked him from the bottom of my heart.  They turned out to be the most comfortable pants I have ever owned, and I loved them.

So I left with a prescription, new pants, and instructions to rest all day.  Hahaha.  I had a toddler waiting at home that would be up in two hours.

I went home to catch a nap, then got up to go to the pharmacy and the grocery store to grab some fluids.  I had left Evan with breakfast and cartoons as The Husband slept like a hibernating bear.  I laid on the couch all morning watching cartoons with Evan.  About noon, I called a friend to see if she could take Evan to the park after his nap, so that I could sleep all afternoon.  Evan’s naptime was a blessing.  My friend picked up Evan and willingly took him to the park.  As I slept, The Husband woke feeling great.  And guilty.  He scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled.  I can count on one hand how many times he’s done that in our marriage.  A friend called him out on it too because as the guy said, “The Husband knew he was in the dog house.”

And the stupid key, we didn’t find it for two weeks.  I had to go hunt one down to buy, which took three days.  And just so you don’t think I’m the world’s worst cook by poisoning my family, my doctor assured me it must have been the chicken wasn’t cooked right and that we didn’t eat the undercooked meat next to the bone until I pulled it off and stuck it in the fried rice.  We never bought chicken from that store again.

While those hours rank up there as one of my worst, at least I got a great pair of pants out of it.

Pumpkin Aversions

The Husband has food issues.  He hates using his hands to eat if there is any possible way to spill.  Hamburgers must always been on plates.  Pizza is always cut.  Chili is eaten at luke warm temperature.  Just to watch someone eat something messy (like those old Carl’s Jr. commercials), gives him the creeps.  We were at a restaurant once where they served him still boiling soup, and he threw his chair about a yard back.  It’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.  And I, I love to eat with my hands; I love to get messy.  While doing a sociology experiment, I had to eat a utensil dinner without utensils.  I adored eating my rice bowl that way so much that I did it for years.  The Husband and I both agree that this weird trait of his shouldn’t be passed to the boys as long as I also taught them to eat with utensils as needed.

Today we carved the pumpkin.  And yes, I love digging my hands into the pumpkin and pulling out the innards.  (Can you guess that I mix my meatball mixture by hand?)  The Husband wanted to carve, but he was more than willing to let me clean the pumpkin.  In my mind, I pictured the boys and I ewwing and squealing as we pulled out piles of slimy pumpkin vines.

Instead.  As I pulled out the innards, the boys shied away.  I couldn’t convince them to touch them at all.

Evan: Mommy!  They’re the icky!

Me: (to The Husband) I wonder where they get this from.

The Husband: Your side.

Me: (short laugh) Right.  No one in my family is grossed out by food.

The Husband: So all the looks come from your side and all the weird food aversions come from mine?

Me: Apparently.

Plain Insanity: The Father

I’ll admit it.  I daydream A LOT.  I fantasize A LOT.  It makes the days easier to handle.  I have a variety of daydreams I turn to.

I have fantasies grounded in reality.  Like: The boys take a three hour nap, allowing me to take a three hour nap.  My mom makes my favorite meal without me mentioning it, and she goes on to insist I have seconds, rather than muttering about how little weight she gained in her third pregnancy.  I find a surprise 20 bucks, and my mom insists on watching the boys so that I can go to the bookstore.

I have fantasies that are slightly grounded in reality.  Like: The Husband gives me a couple hundred dollars so that BFF and I can spend a day at the spa being pampered when I visit her in November.  My house is miraculously cleaned in the middle of the night as I sleep.  Evan graduates at the top of his class to get an excellent scholarship, where he gets a scholarship to an IV league law school where he meets a smart, beautiful young woman who is estranged from her family and loves us so much they decide to set up a dual practice here in Arizona and I get to watch the grandkids and have everyone over for holidays.  (I’ve had more years to plan Evan’s future than Sean’s, but Sean goes to the NFL in his.)  Hey, it could happen.

And some of my fantasies are not grounded at all in reality.  Like: The Husband dies in a car accident, leaving me with a surprise of a 5 million dollar life policy, so that I can raise the kids for a few years without working.  In that time span, I publish several novels, becoming famous enough to meet a certain handsome movie actor and carry on a secret affair that would not endanger my motherly duties because what kind of mother would I be then.  When the actor falls in love with me, I dump him as I would like to be that shallow one day, but besides I don’t need my children raised under the tabloid spotlight, and one of my books becomes a hit movie directed by one of my favorite directors, so I already have enough spotlight anyways.  See?  Not grounded in reality because first and foremost The Husband would have to submit to a blood test for that kind of life insurance policy, and that just won’t happen.

But The Husband on the other hand doesn’t understand which fantasies of his are grounded in reality and which are just plain fantasy.

He’s bragged about several projects that will let him retire early with millions in the bank, and because I believe my husband is an excellent business man, I’ll put these in the grounded in reality pile, though I think the time lines can be a bit exaggerated.

He’s talked about opening up a bar.  Not reality based.  He talked about owning a limo business.  Also not reality based.  He talked about starting an escort business because someone told him it was an excellent way to make large amounts of cash.  I allowed talk for a week before I told him his feminist wife would leave him.

Then there are the fantasies about where we’re going to live.  At first they were cute as he promised me during our courtship that he would move anywhere I wanted.  Then they slowly morphed into places he liked.  Like Havasu City because of the river, forgetting that it’s like 125 in the summer and one can’t live in the river or the fact he hated living in a small town as a kid.  The plan of living in CA for six months and Hawaii for six months, not understanding that the school year is nine months.

Then last week he dropped the bomb shell.  The Husband has decided that since he can work anywhere, that we need to live cheaply for another year, and that the lease is up at the end of march, we should move to the Caribbean for a year.  We would save money, the boys would be immersed in a foreign language, and we’ll live in a tropical paradise.

But The Husband has conveniently forgotten certain facts.  Like I’m due at the end of April.  That babies need regular check-ups and vaccines all year.  Many places in the Caribbean are more expensive than Arizona.  We moved to Arizona for the support of family.  That Evan needs to go to kindergarten next year.  That my tongue is so English I can’t roll an R to save my life.   Not to mention little storms called hurricanes barreling down on those tiny islands every year.

Usually I let The Husband play with his “real life plans” until I see that he’s serious, and then I intervene.  Except right now, I’m having a hard time biting my tongue.  Because, you know, I’m pregnant and would like to have a secure future.  It’s bad enough that he, my mother, my grandmother have all decided we should move at the end of the lease “because there’s no room for the baby.”  Now I have a husband who thinks it would be a great idea to move three time zones away?!  I need to borrow someone to knock some sense into this man.

Pregnancy Insanity: The Father

The Husband can get a little crazy, which I plan to explain in the next post.  But the craziest he ever got was when I was pregnant with Evan.  To this day, I’m not sure what sent him over the edge.  It wasn’t like Evan was an unplanned, out-of-wedlock, pregnancy.  Actually Evan is the first in-wedlock pregnancy of this family generation.  (I know; my cousins have never heard of a condom.)  I just know I accepted the insanity with such ease and composure, with morning sickness, that I’m a shoeing for sainthood after my death.

 

Phase One:

The Husband: Fae, we can’t do this.  We can’t bring in another soul into the cycle of suffering and death.  It’s wrong.

Ok, dude, but we should have thought about that BEFORE I stopped taking birth control pills.  Not to mention your high school understanding of Buddhism is a little lacking since you only studied it back in high school during your martial arts phase.  Watching a martial arts movie does not count as study.

This lasted a week.

 

Phase Two:

The Husband: Fae, we can’t do this.  We just can’t afford a child.  They’re really expensive.

Um, dude, weren’t we planning on a Hawaiian vacation this year?  Why don’t we use that money?  Besides kids don’t get expensive until they’re much older.  Right now they don’t cost anything to feed, grandparents will buy them clothes and toys, and we have all the furniture we need except a crib.

This lasted two weeks.

 

Phase Three:

The Husband: I’ve been thinking.  I think morning sickness is all in the head.

Are you f-ing kidding me?!  I call in one day, ONE DAY, because I vomited three times before I make the car, and it’s all in my head!  Because you are so fortunate to still be sleeping when I vomit does not mean it’s in my head!  Do you want to ask my co-workers who watch me run to the bathroom in the morning?!  You know what I think.  I think hangovers are in your head.  Next time you have one we’re going for a picnic with loud music.

This lasted one day.

 

Phase Four:

The Husband: Fae, are you sure it’s my child?

For several weeks I’ve dealt with your insanity, and I have accepted it with relative calm even though I’m the one that is growing a baby, I’m the one that throws up every morning, I’m the one that is bone-tired, I’m the one who is going to get grossly fat and have a body change.  And now you are questioning my fidelity?  Even though I’m the one who stays home and never goes out.  You have one hour to get this out of your system.  ONE HOUR.  Then it’s done, and any other crazy idea you have in your head is staying there.

This lasted one hour.