I think my husband has narcolepsy.
His ability to pass out the moment his body relaxes is both amazing and infuriating. The alleged narcolepsy is not a minor irritation in our marriage. It makes me want to grab him by the shoulders with my exhausted, bitter hands and shake him. Hard. It takes me forever to go to sleep, and then once I do, I am inevitably awakened either by snoring or children.
I was telling a group of people about it the other day, and I mistakenly said “I think my husband has necrophilia.” I NEED MORE SLEEP.
I love my husband. I want to spend time with my husband. I even want to have sex with my husband. But we made children, children who seem to be everywhere, interrupting our conversations and our sexy time and wedging their tiny bodies between us. Sometimes I get overwhelmed with how much has changed since we became parents, and how hard it can be to maintain a healthy relationship.
Sometimes, I want to scream “FUCK THIS SHIT” and stab a gallon of milk with scissors until it spews all over the kitchen and I want to leave it there for everyone to walk through so the entire house smells of soured milk by the time my husband gets home for dinner. Then I want to greet him with a kiss and say, “I did nothing today but cover our entire house in whole milk. None of that 2 percent shit. Also, everyone has diarrhea. We’re out of diapers and bread. And milk, too…obviously. See you in a week.”
Recently I voiced that my emotional needs were not being met, and without really intending to, I started a discussion about my feelings before 8 a.m. It was very 1950’s housewife cliché—me in my nightgown, angrily unloading the dishwasher, and him in his work clothes, blinking at me blankly with clueless man eyes.
As we stood there discussing my feelings, even though I knew I didn’t have enough time to make him understand the depths of my soul before he left for work, our oldest two children were in the bathroom cramming latex balloons down the drains. That is marriage and parenthood.
All too often, I find myself longing for the days when we were still trying to impress each other. When I spent hours getting ready and he would surprise me with tickets to a show or flowers. Real life adulting—the kind that involves budgeting and school supplies and Crock Pot recipes and fighting because he said he was going to locate that smell in the van and it’s been 2 weeks and the smell is still there—is not romantic.
Or, at least that’s what I thought.
It was 5:45 p.m. on a Tuesday and I was standing at the sink thinking the following thoughts: Who the hell invented Hamburger Helper? It’s basically a box of chemicals that I’m supposed to add meat and water to. Why are the boys screaming like that? Oh my God, someone is going to end up in the E.R. if they keep running through the house —”STOP RUNNING THROUGH THE HOUSE!!”—Robbie’s home. Oh my goodness, I look like fresh hell. What is this stuff on my pants? It’s fucking diaper cream. Awesome.
Children were running and screaming, the TV was blaring, and I hadn’t looked in a mirror in 8 hours. My husband walked through the door and over to where I was standing, wrapped his arms around me, and gave me the kind of kiss where you get dipped backwards.
This thing we’re doing—I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else. Even with the necrophil…narcolepsy.
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