My Shitty Weekend. Or, Why I Fantasize About Leaving My Husband

toilet-paper.jpegI fantasize about leaving my husband… but not for the reasons you’d think.

My husband works very long hours. I work two days a week but am currently on maternity leave with our third child. His schedule essentially leaves me as the sole childcare provider to our 2 year, 3 year, and 6 week old daughters.

I recently (jokingly, not jokingly) threatened to leave him; and contrary to the usual take on custody- I told him that when I left, I would leave him with all three girls.

Let me set the stage that prompted this particular threat. My husband was working all weekend and so my usual weekend respite didn’t happen. Compound that with a rainy and cold day and my dumbass idea to pick this weekend to start limiting screen time and I think we’d all agree that we had the makings for a shitty weekend.

Things were going in the usual, but not altogether unexpectedly shitty manner, and I found myself nearing the finish line. We had made it to nap time on Sunday.

I had the baby in the carrier and had corralled the bigger two upstairs to get them into bed. It was at this point that I found what they had been doing all morning to entertain themselves without TV. They had made gigantic messes in just about every available space. Great.

Because messes make me crazy, I started to pick up the middle one’s room when she comes running in crying and holding up her left foot to show me the nugget of poop hanging off her heel. No no no no. But yes… my usually and expectedly shitty weekend just turned into a God’s honest shit covered shitty weekend.

I unceremoniously dumped the, until then, peacefully sleeping baby out of her carrier and onto the floor and grabbed my excrement covered child. I carried her to the bathroom spewing child-friendly swear words and hosed her off in the tub all while trying to reassure that mommy’s yelling wasn’t at her. It’s at this point that the three-year-old comes in to sweetly announce that the dog is eating the poop off the carpet.

And so, with all the excitement of a horror movie heroine checking out that noise in the basement, I peeked into my room (because of course that’s where she chose to do her business). It smelled like an outhouse and looked like some sort of anarchist’s art installation. And, fortunately/ unfortunately, the large chunks were gone (read- eaten by the dog) and I only had the remnants to clean.

I fired off a 4-letter worded tirade of a text to my husband- a tirade that might just make a sailor blush. And, to his credit, he cut short his work and rushed back home where he was greeted with a quiet, poop-free home filled with three sleeping children and a wife who had just given up.

So, while I fantasize about leaving him, I never will. I love them all and leaving seems like a lot of work. Oh and I’m pretty sure that they’d find me… they always do.

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