Angry

November 02, 2006 | Category: Family, It's a Trip

I came down with a cold last week. Bear gave it to me, on purpose. Fiendish 6 year old knew he would have days of soup and television, if only he could fell the great mean mommy who makes him do his chores and go to school. Plotted with some of the great biologists of our time, came up with a bug that would sit on my chest until I slipped into a twilight space of Arthur and chocolate milk.

This afternoon, finally, I called CD in surrender.

"Come home," I begged. I was dozing in and out while Bear hopped around me. Sniffly himself, but full of mischief, too. Me asleep, child awake - this was the most dangerous combination known to man.

"I can't," he told me - his team already fallen to similar microbic beasts, he couldn't leave his company unsupported. Much like my breasts.

But I digress.

I gave him no choice; "Bear is making himself popcorn! In the microwave! Also? Haggis! There are wildebeasts roaming the hall. Or livestock-shaped laundry that has been willed into life, into playmates for our child. Plus I think he's cruising the internet, looking for Dora's home number."

He groaned and told me he'd do what he could. But that I should have backup plan.

He reminded me that we had a Very Important Call with our bookkeeper today. About the gap between what is due and what is coming. About the little things we needed in the meantime. Like microwave popcorn. And insurance premiums.

I flaked, completely irresponsibly.

For weeks now, I have blown off the weekly finances meeting on the flimsy pretext that the bookkeeper and CD have it at the very moment I drive Bear to Kindergarten and walk him to class. This week, they finally rescheduled it.

And me, with my silly little fever and bone-crushing exhaustion.

In fact, I called CD in the midst of it, croaked at him (because there was a frog hanging from my tonsils) to get his skinny fanny homeward. "I am drowning in bedclothes! And your son has a cup of ice, some Halloween candy, and he's headed for the blender. The blender, dammit!"

At some point, an hour or so later, I heard my husband's dulcet tones, snarling from the front room; "I'm home!"

And from there, it all went downhill. CD turned a blind eye to Bear's incomplete homework, the dishes in the sink. He kicked the laundry monster into the hall corner, and told me to sleep.

When I woke up, disoriented, hours later, a foamy dread tugged at me.

As the pressure dials up, we break down. We slip into old, bad habits. Old, bad feelings. Old, bad ... old. Bad.

He knows it is not my fault that I am sick, on a day when it is impossible for him to take care of us. He knows that the money strains will eventually sort themselves out, and until then we are each doing our best.

But my husband, he was depressed for many years. Someone once said that depression is angry turned inward, and I think that is at least partially true. I remember that chip on his shoulder, it waves at me in recognition. I remember that sullen gleam in his eye.

I can't stand feeling all victim-like. As I don't remind him when he comes home with some fast food for us that he forgot to pick up tissues. I grab a wad of toilet paper, and pretend not to see how he didn't help. Try to keep the narrow laser beam on what he did do.

He came home. He watched our son. So I could sleep.

Forget how it used to be. Forget swallowing my own emotions and needs and wants. Forget how I used to tiptoe on the eggshells that kept the peace.

As I tiptoe, one more time.

Angry. And sick. And tired.

This too shall pass.

And hopefully, soon enough.

Share: Delicious! | Stumble It! |   Slashdot It!