I’m telling you, it was the Lord

Holy matrimonial week from Hades. Having a baby is hard on a marriage, there’s no way around that.

DanO works hard, and he is good at what he does. He enjoys his boss and coworkers and finds his work challenging. Unless OBaby and I come get him, he often works through lunch (my husband has always been the “eat to live” not “live to eat” type) which means he’s in his office for 9 hours a day. When he comes home, he needs a little time to recharge. A little time to stare at a screen and not think.

Funny thing is, when he comes home, I need a little O MY WORD TAKE THE BABY IT’S YOUR TURN. I worked all day too, you know. But uhm, that’s the kind of thing that leads men to stay later at work because coming home is, well, work.

What’s a girl to do?

Throw herself into a pit of self-pity, that’s what. After a very long week (thankfully punctuated by a salon trip) I was kind of, like, done come Saturday. You know, ‘woe is me’ and all that jazz. Only DanO was, like, done too. YouknowwhereIamgoing.

Then BOOM marital strife like we have not known before. I was doubling over with mylifeishard-itis  and too blinded by my own needs to see the ones of the person I married. O, and let’s go ahead and complicate it with the fact that OBaby will no longer fall asleep in DanO’s arms. Nay, only in the tired, sore arms of yours truly. I wanted out – at least for a 15 minute walk of freedom.

Turns out when I take care of OBaby solo in the evenings and on the weekends, at times I do it begrudgingly (true) and DanO feels guilty for having some alone time to edit senior pictures (He’s taken two people’s now. Cool? Yes.) when I’m stuck with OBaby. So while DanO adjusts exposure and vignettes, I mumble things under my breath that would make a Wheaton College student blush.

I am not proud. I’m just saying.

Being sufficiently guilted by a conniving wife, DanO comes down from his office and sits with us. Now who’s begrudging?

UGH it is such a vicious cycle you guys.

Let me explain further.

One day last weekend I had a twinkling of an idea that hey, maybe another baby wouldn’t be that bad (it should be noted that I am not presently on birth control, but really ought to be, given OBaby’s conception circumstances/ittookaday) (Did I just go there, Dad? Yes. Yes I did). I’m not sure what possessed me last weekend, but I concluded that perhaps we don’t have to pay for  birth control because, really, the alternative is a fairly agreeable option.

(I am such an emotional roller coaster.)

But then, Last Week happened (pre-salon treatment) and I quickly decided to redecorate the living room instead of getting pregnant again. It seemed like a wise and fair exchange. Cut to Sunday afternoon when our senior picture appointment (the third) was canceled and I suggested hey! Let’s move the furniture around in here, like in college, only it’s not modular. As we re-oriented the couch so that the TV is not first and foremost in the living room, we began to squabble. You know, big brother-little sister type bickering because so help me if my couch is going to be shoved up against the wall in the corner.

And then it escalated. And then we were yelling at each other and it was a mere 20 minutes before our dinner guests were to arrive (is stuff starting to make sense, Cindy?). O, neither one of us could see past the end of our own noses to the huge gaping wound we were creating in the other person.

Yuck, yuck, and yuck.

We separate for a few minutes, I make chili like we’re still having people over, and then we kiss and make up hastily before the doorbell rings.

Now it’s last night and we’re doing pretty well until for the umpteenth time our good sleeper wakes up to poop with much effort and tears after being asleep for an hour and a half (right as we were getting some much needed together time). I flipped my lid. I tell you, it was the closest I’ve come to a break down since high school. This is where I remind you that OBaby will no longer fall asleep in DanO’s arms. So I’m walking figure eights around our dark house thinking about what could have been this evening and playing the victim role so hard I deserved an Oscar nod. OBaby fell asleep eventually and DanO came back to bed after a contemplative 10 minutes out on the couch, likely wondering what has become of his wife and who is this crazy woman with whom he shares a bed.

We go to sleep with an air of contempt in the room thick enough to use as diaper cream.

Then, after falling asleep I had a dream as vivid as my pregnancy days, only this one wasn’t weird and physically impossible. I was driving to meet a friend for coffee, seething with anger at how my life is ruined and preparing to unload it on her over a latte for some sympathy, when out of nowhere the skies blacken and things start flying and all I know is that my Honda CR-V has been picked up by a tornado and I am now at the whim of the winds.

“O Lord, please let me land gently and survive!” I cried.

“But why? You hate your life.” He responded

“Because DanO and OBaby need me, they need me God and I see that now. Please!”

“For them, then.” He said.

And as quickly as the storm came, my car was sitting on it’s side in a quiet and empty parking lot, myself intact. All I remember after that is unbuckling my seat belt and climbing out the passenger-side door in search of my family.

I can honestly say I had never before experienced God reaching out to me through my dreams, but I now fully believe He does. I literally awoke to OBaby’s crying this morning at 5:40 and felt refreshed as I got out of bed to change him.

I called DanO this morning to tell him, too. I am well. Huge parts of me feel healed. When DanO gets home, it doesn’t suddenly become all about me. I can have much needed salon trips and baths and the occasional time off, but it will never, ever be all about me.

For them, then.