Where does it all go wrong?! Clearly, waking up is my first mistake. I have to get up 15 minutes earl every day because it takes that long to get my husband out of bed. This is a fact of my reality that never ceases to annoy the living hell out of me, as I don’t sleep much as it is. Having to lose sleep just because he refuses to rouse himself in a timely manner? Not fair in Diva Domain. And Soldier Daddy is a special brand of charming in the morning, too. Starting the day with such negativity is probably not the recommended way, especially since this takes place prior to the comsumption of the Blood of Life. And then I get to repeat this all over again when I wake up his sleep minion, Ty. From that point on, it is a non-stop nag fest to get the monkey butts to actually put some speed into their morning activities and to the bus on time. Fantastic.
I spend a good portion of time preaching to the menfolk about equality and the fact that just because I am a SAHM/W does not mean that I am any of the following:
- everyone’s personal assistant
- the house elf/slave
- a piece of furniture
- an animitronic representation of humanity
- an idiot
- without a life, thoughts, needs, or opinions of my life
- existing with the sheer purpose/joy of serving others with no expectation of appreciation/gratitude
I wonder if using some sort of rocket delivery system would expedite the process of retention of information? Because clearly they have ignored the memo.
This morning was a perfect example of the inequality and lack of thinking. I had to wake Soldier Daddy up 15 minutes earlier, due to an incoming text on his phone from a soldier. Translation,… he is up early and has a block of extra time. One of the evil cats had barfed in the hallway, the cleaning of which is something that generally falls into my realm of responsibility. Now, I am on a schedule. It’s a school day, kids to wake up and shower, laundry to start, lunches to be made, etc. I am also hobbling about with a messed up heel. I told him about it, nothing. Not in the mood for an argument (yet), I hobble off to get the supplies. I am huddled on the floor cleaning it as he climbs over me, scratching man parts as he did, smacking me in the shoulder with his foot. Not a word. As I sit, I see him wander into the bathroom. Okay, the morning man pee. I get that. He finishes. He comes out and doesn’t even glance my way and wanders into the bedroom. I am fuming at this point. I mean, Goddess forbid he offer to, I don’t know, actually do it himself so I could actually stay on time?! I finish and as I head back to the bathroom to now take a shower at the speed of light, I glance into the bedroom. He”s just standing there, once again scratching things.
So, I point out the constant speeches about the aforementioned list of things I am not. He looks at me. I explain how it relates to the current situation, and the fact that it didn’t even occur to him to help out, despite the fact that I told him I didn’t really have time. Not even a half-assed “I’m sorry”. Nope. Instead it is my fault for not asking him. Seriously? He couldn’t see me there as he climbed over me? He couldn’t put it together for himself when I said I really didn’t have time? He can’t think for himself? Really? Not his mama. Seriously, dude. Get a clue.
It’s the little things. They add up and I feel like a giant blob of unloved, unappreciated uselessness. Until someone wants or needs something. Fantastic.