Adult relationship

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You know how they say you should never go to bed angry?  I call b.s.  You should never write a blog while angry though.   I have started out this morning but getting into it with my darling dear S.O.  The love of my life, the man I share a bed and life with, is a huge jerk.  Not all the times but the times that he is he makes up for all the times he wasn’t.

I was going to write about all the ways that he is a jerk and inconsiderate and basically an a-hole.  I was going to pour my hurt and anger into a diatribe because it would be better than engaging him.  Except it wouldn’t.   It would be out there for everyone to read and make assumptions and judgements about.  And I wouldn’t be able to take it back when this all blows over.

Arguing with your S.O. can be cathartic.  It can be constructive and actually help your relationship.  It’s called communicating.  But it also can be damaging and petty.  I don’t want to damage my relationship.  I want it to be stronger and to always continue to work on our relationship.  I am on the path to becoming a licensed family counselor so I should know how to talk to my husband without it dissolving into an argument, right?

If I were a mechanic, I would still have car problems.  If I was a doctor, I could still get sick.  Why is it that because I am a mom and a wife I think that I have to constantly calm/fix things with my husband and because I am in social services that I should know how to communicate with him without fighting?  It’s silly.  We are humans and we have feelings that get hurt and we say things that make that hurt transfer to someone else.  It’s hard to avoid and I’m not always going to be able to not do it.

So, instead of writing about what a jerk he was this morning I will try to focus on why we got into it at 6 in the morning.  We were both tired, him from working so many hours and me from staying up late and having the kids for so many hours without help.  Today is a rough day for me, what would have been my mom’s 68th birthday.  My feelings are already on red alert and I am sensitive today.  My S.O. may or may not remember what today is and he certainly has no idea how I’m feeling today because I haven’t told him.   He is not a mind reader and although he is pretty good about picking up when I’m upset he is not inside my head.  He couldn’t find his wallet or favorite work shorts and I thought that was his own problem of not being organized.  Which it is.  It is also my job to help my family find things, because obviously I have a tracking device in my uterus (classic Roseanne Barr joke pre-Roseanne.)

I am not mad at him anymore even though my plans to have a birthday lunch with my sister is now on hold.  I am not going to try to hold on to the anger that I felt this morning when he dismissed my feelings and did not acknowledge what today is.  I am not going to be held hostage by feeling mad and angry and sad and hurt.  I want to enjoy this day and enjoy the kids (at least for the first few hours) and not spend it sulking.

When he gets home from work tonight, we will find time to talk about it in between feeding kids, bathing kids, and attempting to get kids to sleep.  I will let him know how much my feeling were hurt and he will let me know how much he needs help to get organized because he is stretched thin with work.   I know this because we make an effort to talk about why we were fighting.  Sometimes it works and sometimes it’s best to let it go.

What I have learned about fighting with my S.O. is that it is normal, it can be healthy to have open disagreements, and that it will not last forever.  We married for better or worse and all days cannot be sunshine and roses.  Also, go to bed angry.  Fighting while tired is stupid.  Waking up in the morning and not remembering what you were arguing about is better than rehashing everything until you go to sleep.  Plus, I really need my sleep.

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(Disclosure:  this post talks about adults having consensual sex.  If by this point you do not want to read further:  there are cartoons on Disney Jr to entertain you, you prude!) Sex.  It’s a pretty serious subject.  We have already discussed the sex talk in previous posts so, my lovely readers, you know how serious I am about it.  Obviously with 7 kids, I kind of have had sex before.

Sex with kids.  Not having sex with kids.  That is a serious and illegal subject but not one I am going to give credence to at this point. I’m not a paedo for gods sake.  I am talking about how parents are able to still have sex with children in the house.   It’s like an Olympic sport.  Not the sex part, although it can be.  I mean the planning of said activity.

In our house, it starts out several hours in advance.  S.O. will give me the side eye and make charming subtle comments like, “Hey, can we get it in tonight?”  I melt.

 

lily%2520liam%2520eggsSo you thought you were going to do what, Mommy?

I start planning out the timeline.  Feed kids dinner. Get kids to complete chores without having to result to violent threatening and loss of freedoms.  Bathe small children.  Attempt to shave legs and other parts in bathroom sink while bathing kids.   Answer questions from #6 about why mommies have to shave.  It involves a lot of  “you’ll understand when your older.  You can thank your grandmothers Eastern European genes for the necessity.”   Meanwhile, S.O. is watching t.v in the living room, completely oblivious to the pregame activities taking place.

Kids bathed. Check.  Kids in jammies.  Check.  Kids tucked into bed.  Unchecked.  #6 has a sixth sense when mommy and daddy need some alone time.  Her entire mission in life is to prevent said alone time.  She will complain that she cannot sleep in her bed because it is: lumpy, haunted, too small, too big, too cold, too warm, scratchy, not mommy’s bed.  She will request me to read her a story. Fine. Reading is fundamental after all.  She picks out a tome.  Not happening.  We read a book about Taylor Swift.  Followed by Q&A from #6 about everything we just read.  Now we need a drink.  Now we need to potty.  Now we need Daddy.  S.O. comes upstairs and sits with her until she falls asleep.

I decide to make sure the sheets are halfway clean, brushing off the crumbs that #7 and I managed to get everywhere from eating chips in bed earlier, as you do.  I spray some Febreeze to set the mood.  And to hide the smell of S.O.’s work clothes that are so tauntingly thrown NEXT to the hamper.   #7 whimpers over the baby monitor.  It’s okay, he is not crying so no need to check on him.   I start the shower and jump in, expecting S.O. to come in at any minute. Try to look sexy with shampoo in eyes and half shaved legs.

Get out of shower, wrapped in semi-clean towel from kids bath earlier.  No S.O.  Tiptoe to #6’s room to check on them.  He is snoring in the rocking chair, T-Swift book dangling from his hand.  #6 has her finger wrapped in his other hand.  Gently wake him up while he exclaims in a still-trying-to-sleep tone, “Huh, whhat?”

Maybe tomorrow night it will happen.  For tonight, I will guide him to bed (crumb-free) and let him sleep.  All the pre-game activity has worn me out as well.  But definitely tomorrow.  Maybe the day after.

 

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I am not crazy.  I am not a saint.  I am well aware of what caused me to have 7 children and yes, it does involve sex.  And some bad decisions.  But mainly sex.

To start, I had my first child, a beautiful daughter, known from here on out as #1, at 18.  Well, technically two days before my 18th birthday, but 18 sounds so much better than 17.  I married her father at 19, who will hereby be referenced as THE EX.  We had four more children (#2, #3, #4, #5 and all boys) in 10 years.  After 17 years together, THE EX and I were divorced.

Enter husband #2, hereby known as S.O.  He is a wonderful man, generous, kind, lovely even.  And he is slightly crazy. I mean he married a woman with 5 kids.  And he is 9 years younger than me.  So, technically I am not a cougar, but a puma.

S.O. and I decided to have two more children, #6:  finally another girl!  And #7: another boy.  Love them dearly, they completed our blended family and are not loved any differently than the original 5 (OG5 in our house.)

 

OG5, the babies, SO and me

OG5, the babies, SO and me

We have two cats, Gus and Ivan the Purrible.  They are cute, they are menaces, they thrive on tearing up toilet paper and trying to kill me by wrapping between my legs as I am walking down the stairs.   I also have my widowed dad, “DAD”.  He is a sweetheart of a man who breaks my heart over and over by missing my mom more terribly than any of us ever could.

So, that in a nutshell, is my family.  Life with nine.  Plus two cats.  And a widowed dad.  And my siblings.  And in-laws.  And other extras.

I am attempting to be the best mom I can be, although most times I settle on being an okay mom.  Sometimes I have great advice, sometimes I have good advice, and mostly I have funny, hilarious, and make-me-pee-my-pants horror stories of parenting, marriage, and being an adult child.

Hope you enjoy!  I know that I am … mostly 🙂

 

 

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