Monday, October 13, 2008

Happily Ever Undecided

Stricken by the presence of Milk Man for four days straight, I fear I might be lactose intolerant. "What do you wanna do today?" I ask. "I don't know, what do you wanna do?" Milk Man says. Our marriage is like that pirate ship ride at carnivals that swings back and forth until you feel like the zeppolies you just ate are going to come out of your nose. It's not like this cycle is anything new; flash back to 1998, and we were probably having the same conversation except we were poorer, less educated, childless and wearing flannel. Luckily, someone decides to be born on Saturday morning and our choices are narrowed down. Our friends have a baby girl. We call Princess Jessica, the babysitter, so we can go to the hospital.

I go about doing what I normally do in the morning, cleaning the bedrooms, but today, Milk Man is following me around the house. He comes into the princess' room where I am twisted in a yoga-like pose trying to reach Polly Pocket dolls, and a Sippy cup from 2007 that is stuck under her bed. He flops on the mattress and leans toward me on the floor. "What are you doing!?" I say, exasperated. He says he's just checking something. I follow his gaze down to my Henley tee that is not buttoned properly. "Come on, you pain in the rear, will you go back to work?!" I say, clutching my shirt. I drag the vacuum down the staircase, and he follows. Next I'm perusing today's newspaper. I come across my horoscope and read it aloud. Milk Man is drinking his coffee in the chair across from me. "Take a break from routines and do something sinfully impulsive." I pause, daydreaming of buying these cool leather boots I saw, and eating a brownie sundae with vanilla ice cream. (I just love the contrast of hot and cold tastes.) Milk man is crunching Cookie Crisps and talking with food in his mouth. Snapping out of my daydream I hear the tail end of his suggestion. " ...I'm sure there's a pole you can use at the firehouse down the road." I'm just staring at this man thinking that little brat, Cupid, really tricked me. "Oh my gosh," I say aloud because kids are around, "I can't even decide what my own sinful impulse will be. This is my horoscope, not yours. You need to go to work," I say, ripping the section out of the paper and stuffing it in my jean pocket, protectively.

I agree with myself that Milk Man will take charge of the kids for a few hours, so I fall asleep on the chair in the front porch. I fall into a dream that I just gave birth to Baby Bigfoot. The nurse covers me with a toasty, white hospital blanket, and hands me a giant... bird. I scream, opening my eyes. A blue jay the size of a cat has landed on the feeder in the porch window, scattering a handful of sparrows in the grass below. Meanwhile, there's a crisis in the den. I shut my eyes again so I don't have to be responsible. It sounds like Milk Man fell asleep on the job, and the princess' water experiment caused a small flood. (She turned on all the faucets in the house for about twenty minutes.) I don't really care right now, because I'm in my favorite chair. Looking down, I see that someone put a big goose-down blanket over me. Maybe Milk Man being off for a long weekend has its perks, after all, I think as he cleans the mess. Maybe I'll even miss him when he's back at work. (I decide not to tell.)

Soon enough princess Jessica has arrived. The kids are running around the house like rabid squirrels. I hug her, promising to say a prayer to St. Michael for her protection later. Then Milk Man and I bolt out of the house, laughing madly. We're finally getting out the door and doing something, with one whole hour to spare before the hospital visit. "What do you wanna eat," Milk Man asks. "I don't know, what do you wanna eat?" I say. Running out of time because we can't decide, we end up at Papa Joe's by default.

Next I'm at the hospital, pressing my face against the nursery glass and cooing. The new baby is as cute as a button, as they say. This old-friend-turned-new-dad exerts his right to give Milk Man an emotional wedgie, asking, "You want another one?" I'm still plastered to the glass. "No!" We both say in unison. The baby wiggles. "Well, maybe," I mumble. "No, way!" says Milk Man. "You're right," I agree, shaking off my newborn daze. In the parking lot the chill of the Autumn air sobers me further. I laugh at the thought. "Well, maybe." says Milk Man.

Then things get ugly. I can't take another minute of happily ever indecision! "Either you buy a magic eight ball, or I want a divorce." I demand, thinking I can't wait for this husband to go back to work.
(Image from Flickr)
“I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.” -Rita Rudner

1 comment:

Elizabeth Kathryn Gerold-Miller said...

That's the great thing about NFP - you can change your mind on a daily basis! Good thing we made up after that huge fight three Thanksgivings ago, or my littlest one would never have been conceived!

Dear Internet Traveler,

Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.


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