On the Subject of Husbands

Let me get one thing very clear - this is not a blog to discuss how mommies are clever and snarky and awesome (though we are) and how husbands are clueless and idiotic. No. No no no. This is about "the GIG" - namely, motherhood and all that comes with it. Now, motherhood is amazing, an enriching and awe-inspiring experience but it can also be a soul-crushing blackness of despair and misery.

Let's be honest, weakness is not a characteristic consistent with making it in the field of motherhood. Anyone who's had Norovirus run through their house can back me up on that. Toughness is a prerequisite. With my first child, I went FOURTEEN MONTHS without sleeping more than two hours in a row. Let's just say that this lack of sleep did not do good things for my personality. Upon hearing protesters defend the rights of Gitmo detainees (siting that AC/DC was played all night to disturb their rest), I honestly remember thinking: "That doesn't sound bad. They need to man up and quit whining."

Through the lack of sleep, three kids, week-long stretches of vomiting and diarrhea, and pregnancy-induced psychotic episodes of crying and binge eating thai spring rolls, my husband has pretty much been a model of love, support and manliness. Now, does he make a significant contribution to the unending cluster that my life has become? Come on.

Truly, he is better than I deserve on most days. He is tall, handsome, brilliant, totally engaged with our kids, and uproariously funny. He comes up with ridiculous terms (like calling our children "the little terror suspects" or naming our cars after 90210 characters). He can impersonate anyone from Arlen Specter to Andre the Giant with scathing perfection. He's fun to hang out with, generous and kind, and most of my family prefers his company to mine.

All that being said, I wonder how its possible that the same man who becomes so engrossed in his own work that forgets to eat (or call his wife) for twelve hours feels its necessary to text me four times in one meeting to tell me that the baby is crying.

Let me tell you a little story. One evening my husband came home from work and you know what the first thing he said was? It was this: "Have you kids been watching tv all day long?"

We all know this is not a neutral question. So my thought process goes like this: "He thinks I'm a bad parent because the kids watch too much tv. Well he has no idea what goes on here all day. How DARE he criticize my parenting skills? He was the one who was like - 'our kids need you at home, Lydia, why are we going broke paying for someone else to raise our family'. I gave up my job for this?! I had a career. I did not go to grad school to wipe asses and make sure his dress shirts don't have any creases in them. Where the hell is the corkscrew??!"

Here's his thought process: "Left house at 6:45am. Said goodbye to kids in jammies on couch watching Phinneas and Ferb. Returned 7:45pm. Said hello to kids in jammies on couch watching Phinneas and Ferb. Hence, question."

So, who's the asshole? That would be M-O-I. Because just maybe my response to his question included the F-word. And some hand gestures. And this was not reasonable.

If he were to blog on our life together (please God, don't ever let that happen), it would be filled with excruciatingly objective statements that would point out how often I am close to becoming completely unhinged. "Wife screeched at three year old today, in the manner of a meth-fueled harpy. Something to do with feces wiped on wall and carpet. We are not successful at potty training." Or "Lydia wore shirt inside out until 11am. Did not notice until I pointed it out. Did not see humor in the situation."

So, while this blog will be unapologetic in pointing out idiocy on the part of the daddies of the world, we are not haters. We fully realize that we are also idiots. And that the little terror suspects are going to need lots of therapy.