So this past Mother’s Day, I woke up to kisses from my sweet husband, breakfast in bed, lilies on the nightstand and a spa day awaiting me, child-free. I was so happy that I—Oh, wait. No.
No, that’s what I wished had happened. Instead, I had a grumpy husband, who ignored me for his video game most of the day and…was less than verbally polite when he actually did acknowledge my presence. He went and spent around $300 dollars on himself and his brother, and I got a card…the next day. Mandi and our friend Jessica begged him to just tell me ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ and I wouldn’t be so mad, but he refused to do that. As a matter of fact, he didn’t say it until the next afternoon in Burger King. He told me that since the day before went so poorly, we were going to have Mother’s Day that day. I honestly can’t remember what we did. I think we went and saw a movie…but I was so extremely heated that it didn’t really matter to me. Of course, to keep the peace, I acted like he was being so sweet and I was so grateful for his generosity. In reality, I spent Sunday to Thursday crying whenever I found time alone. I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal. It’s just a Hallmark holiday, right? Wrong. I have postpartum depression, and everyday I plaster a smile on because I want to seem like a cheerful wife and mother for the sake of my family. So, I deserved a day to be treated like I was worth something like every other mother the one day of the year our kids/husbands make an effort to show they care. I didn’t get that.
So for Father’s Day tomorrow, I’m going to get a hammer, smash his laptop, sell his tools while he’s asleep, and get some scissors and cut the crotch out of all his…Oh, wait. No. No…That’s just what I want to do.
I’m actually going to wake him up with kisses, make him breakfast in bed, get him something special, and try not to knock his face off because I love him…