Saturday, January 1, 2011

Lighting Fireworks with Wet Matches

When I decided to sincerely try to improve my physical relationship with my husband this year, I didn't think I'd break that promise on New Years Eve night.

 It started with the festivities after dinner. I was playing games at a neighbor's house and assumed that my youngest had retired for the night. Right in the middle of a crucial moment for my team my husband showed up with the little one and said, "He's hungry," in an accusatory tone. Probably the worst thing a nursing mother can do is let their child go hungry. It is always a nursing mother's fault. 

But I knew the kid wasn't hungry. Everyone except for the nursing mother attributes any sort of fussiness on a baby's part to hunger. This probably helps relieve the person who is having a difficult time giving a cranky child comfort. I took the baby, anyway, and left my team in the lurch. 

After I put the baby to sleep again I stepped outside to check out the fireworks. My husband is not into the "festivities" concerning any holiday, so I brooded over his unwillingness to give into social constructs on astronomically assigned dates. 

I guess you could say I wasn't in the mood. 

I will probably say this many times this year, but I will say it anyway, now: I wish it wasn't about mood for me. I wish I could turn off the part of my brain that says how I feel right now has everything to do with pleasure later. 

Somehow sensing the disruption in our galaxy clock reset, or probably just being awoken by the loud booms of aerial fireworks bent on claiming the wee New Years' hours, our children's restlessness and random crying out for comfort completely ruined any chance at personal fireworks anyway. 

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