So Close

Dear Husband

Marko doesn't regularly read my blog.  He reads it a few times a month, which makes it very difficult for me to have a big moan about his as I never know when he will read it. NOT that I have anything to moan about, oh no! He is the PERFECT husband and not AT ALL a pain in the arse. (love you darling, mean it)

Anyhow, he read it the other day and came across the Nekkid post (about getting undressed in front of the open blinds) and said "I see most people agreed with me in the comments".  I said "no way!  Most people agreed with me!"  It was so funny - I was totally convinced that most people sided with me and he was totally convinced most people sided with him. Just shows you, you see what you want to see. Unless you are my neighbour, in which case you apparently see all.

Poor Marko is sick.  Well, the kids have been sick'ish (snotty)* and I just knew Marko would get sick too.  Not meaning to point fingers, but one of us (him) always gets sick when the kids get sick and the other (me) has a MUCH stronger constitution.  *cough*

Yesterday I went to the pharmacy and ask the pharmacist for some medicine for Man Flu. So he said "for what?" Man Flu, I said.  "What's that?"  It's when men get all sick and pathetic and act like they are dying.  He thought it was hilarious.  Although he did try and convince me that it was a real sickness once I explained what it was.  As if, buddy!  Now hand over that 'woe is me' medicine.

Of course Marko forgets to take the medicine to work today so I can just imagine how much whimpering and snivelling must be going on at work. Poor buggers.

It's Marko's birthday tomorrow.  He is still not nearly 40!  My little toyboy.  I would bake a cake, but my mother borrowed my flour yesterday.  She sent me this rather ungrateful text message a few hours later:

"Flour full of weevils.  Expired 8/08"

Not sure what her point was? Told her to just pick them out.

*It is soooooo difficult to try prevent the kids from sharing their snot with Max. I don't want to get all paranoid and not let them close to him, but they keep wanting to smooch him with their snot infested little faces right on his.  A sick, snotty baby is no fun.  Actually, a sick snotty anything (husband/baby etc) is no fun. 

Right, off to buy a homemade cake from the shop.  Later dudes.  xx

It is his lovey

So, a few of you noticed that Marko had his hand in his pants while he was sleeping? 

After I posted that pic and started reading the comments, I suddenly had a "oops, have I over-shared again??" moment, so I called Marko.

Me:  So, I posted that pic of you and Adam on my blog this morning

Marko: Ja?

Me:  Well, you have your hand in your pants. Are you ok with me posting the pic?

Marko: I have my hand in my pants?

Me:  Yes, you know.  You know how you always have your hand in your pants when you lie on the couch watching TV?

Marko: No?

Me: Yes you do! You told me it keeps your hand warm?

Marko: Oh, didn't realize I do it. Fine, whatever.  But in future, do you think you could ask me BEFORE you post a pic rather than afterwards.

Orange is right, it's his lovey. And it keeps his hand warm. Or whatever.  Perhaps if I had some of what he had, I would also want to 'keep my hand warm' with my lovey. 

PS it is our ninth wedding anniversary today.  I got coffee in bed this morning.  I didn't have the heart to point out I haven't had coffee in the  morning for the last 8 months.  No gifts, obviously. Or cards. As we don't do that stuff.  As my husband said to me this morning during our brief but meaningful hug: "nine long years" ;-)  He's my lovey. I do love him quite a lot.

10 Things I love about my husband

One of my girl crushes, ExMi did a blog post on this a while ago, and I have been meaning to do one for ages, but every time I start one, my husband does something so extremely asshole’ish that all fond thoughts dissipate immediately.

However, he is out the house for an hour or so, so I guess the timing is about as perfect as it could be.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder etc.

Those who read this blog, and don’t know Marko and I personally, might assume from my VERY occasional little moans about my husband that Marko and I aren’t made for each other, but they would be very wrong.  I am not sure I could ever find someone more perfect for me. He is my lid (i.e. lid as in ‘every pot has its lid’ – is that a local expression?), my very best friend, my partner, my lover, the father of my children and my darling husband.

This doesn’t mean he doesn’t drive me to drink, he does! He is a stubborn, strict, sulky pain in the arse, but he is MY stubborn, strict, sulky pain the arse and I do love him very much.

So, here are 10 things I love about my husband:

1. He’s got my back. Always.  This is hugely important to me.  I know that Marko is 100% behind me, always. He is always there for me, and always takes my side.  He is my true partner, in every sense of the word
2. I trust him completely. Look, I know one should never say never, but for all the important things in life, I trust him completely.  I know he always has my best interests at heart.
3. He’s funny. Marko might come across quite serious at first, but he has an impish sense of humour – there is NOTHING Marko likes more than to pull a prank on someone. He is very funny.  (Just FYI – he has to work very, very hard to pull a prank on me, I know his tricks by now)
4. He is clever.  More important than looks, power, money etc, ‘clever’ has always been my ‘thing’. I love clever and Marko is very clever. At all sorts of things.
5. He is hot.  Being caught up in the daily grind of work/kids/sleep etc, this is something I don’t notice often enough, but the man is damn hot.  If I had to describe my ideal physical characteristics in a man, Marko would be it.
6. He loves my parents.  This is HUGE for me – I could never be with someone who didn’t love and respect my parents. They mean the world to me and it would be an absolute deal breaker if it was any different.
7. We are remarkably similar in many respects – we have the same attitude towards money, family, punctuality etc etc
8. Yet we are different enough to make life interesting.  We compliment each other, he is strong where I am not, and visa versa.  I think life would be very boring if we were pure carbon copies of each other. Does make for some ‘interesting’ times though.
9. He works bloody hard.  I don’t think I could be with a slacker.  I complain, often, about how hard Marko works and his Calvinist work ethic, but I also admire how much he puts in.  Any employer would be damn lucky to have Marko on his team. Having said that, I could never, ever work with him, or for him.  He is WAY too strict!  Or as we say in Afrikaans, ‘paraat’.
10. He is the father of my children.  This is something that is so big, it blows my mind.  It sometimes makes me mad (how dare HE discipline MY children), but most of the time, it makes me feel humbled that he is my partner in the very thing that is central to my whole world, my kids.

I could actually go on and on.  He really is perfect for me. Make no mistake, he is a HUGE pain, an industrial enema at times, but he is perfect for me.  Sister Mel often says she has no idea how the two most anal, odd people in the world managed to find each other.  And it is quite weird actually, considering we are from such different backgrounds and he is a bit younger than me. But we were obviously meant to be together.

(BTW, we met in a bar, how appropriate.  Although he stopped drinking about 3 weeks after we met (false advertising!!) and I…well, I haven’t really stopped since then.)

Now I better end this off because he comes back and does something so unbelievably irritating that I am forced to kill him and change this list into an obituary.

(PS I do know and realize that I am not the easiest person to live with, as much shit as he gives me, I probably give him too.  Which might actually qualify as point 11 on this list)

WWYD? (What would you do?)

**Warning: Liberal use of the F word to follow**

A friend of a friend would like to know your input on the following:

If you ask your partner to do something, something you think is a legitimate request* (please wash the dishes and / or pack away the laundry / bath the kids / put the kids to bed etc), and they either sigh dramatically or roll their eyes, do you:

1. Think ‘fuck you buddy’ and do it yourself because you are not going to beg for help, or
2. Think ‘fuck you buddy, you WILL do it’ and then get all cross inside because they should do it without bloody moaning, or
3. Ignore the eye rolling; you don’t care how they react as long as they do it, or
4. Kill the fucker
   

The friend of a friend does mostly A or sometimes B, when she knows she really should do C but she just can't help herself, it drives her CRAZY!!! Maybe doing D will solve the problem.

*’legitimate request’ in that you do it most of the time, and really, they can help you out every once in a while.

Edited to add: To be fair, the husband does do a fair amount around the house, 'his' chores. The problem comes in when asked to help with what he considers 'her' chores. And she also suspects that the eye rolling is more for effect than for anything else, but STILL!  It still drives her crazy.

How to make joint purchasing decisions

Email from Marko:

 “Hello, marko@xx.com wants you to look at this Classified Ad on xxx: "Antique hall stand"”

One day later, email from Tertia:

 “Must be sold already, link no longer there”

Email from Marko, the next morning:

 “collecting on Saturday, buying for Rxxxx”

Ok then.  Let's hope I don't hate that "Antique hall stand" too much. Not sure I have much choice though.

Objectively speaking

I am not like some people who have the utmost confidence that they really are always right.  (Marko!) I know I am not always right.  I do make mistakes, I overreact, I get emotional about things, I speak without thinking etc.  But honestly, sometimes I wonder whether it really is me or could it possibly be, just maybe, that the other person (Marko!) could be in the wrong.

Whenever something happens, I always wish that I could record it and play it back to a jury, an objective jury so that I can get their opinion on the matter.  And when they pass their verdict, I will accept it graciously if I am wrong.

It's no use telling my mom, or my friends, because they are going to take my side.  I need an objective jury who will say if it is me, or if it is him (Marko!)

You lot are a possibility, but unfortunately I can't always use you because (a) I think you might be slightly biased towards me, and (b) the other person (Marko!) will get upset with me for talking about it in public.

I think I should get an anonymous blog so that I can post (non) hypothetical situations and ask the jury to decide.  Life imprisonment or death. 

If you see a man with yellow hands, thats my husband

You know, for all my husband's many and varied bad points, he does have a few good points. One which I may not mention on this blog, and the other is that he is very very good at DIY. He has tool skills which will make other men green with envy. (which, if I was being rude, I might say may or may not be related to the first point, heh heh)

 

Not sure if I told you, but last weekend I decided the kids needed to have bunnies, so I told Kate to ask her father for a bunny. Now, Marko is a soft touch when it comes to his precocious precious daughter so before you could say 'but who will feed and take care of the bunnies', he had whipped out his drawing kit, designed an entire first class bunny hutch, bought the material and created a masterpiece.

 

Two days and 200 hundred blisters later, just as he had finished the masterpiece; his darling wife decided that the bunnies needed a place to play in the garden. Unfortunately for all involved, we have a rather large dog who is rather fond of bunnies, which meant that Scary (yes, Kate called her bunny Scary, why are we not surprised) and Snowy would have to have their own special cordoned off section of the garden.

 

Next weekend, its back to the hardware store Marko goes (by now our R60 bunnies have cost us R2500 for the hutch and the enclosure) and slaves all weekend mixing concrete, building a fence, enclosing the area, installing special mesh so that the drooling Bruno can't have bunny for lunch.

 

This evening, as he gets home from work, he strides past the pristine, hardly used kitchen and into the study. He thrusts his hands in front of me and says 'can you see anything different about my hands'? I see a few blisters and I mention so, making the right sympathetic noises, but no, he says, not the blisters, my hands are YELLOW! Can't you see they are yellow? Hmm, they do look a little on the yellow / orange side....

 

It's all my fault! he says. Apparently after working his fingers to the bone on Saturday, he went into my cupboard (mistake!) and grabbed some of my 'hand cream' to help with the pain. And did so again on Sunday. It was only after jaundice and / or gangrene of the hand threatened that he read the label on my 'hand cream' carefully - FAKE TAN! Hahahahaha! He had put fake tan all over his hands, no wonder they are yellow. Funny chap. That will teach Ole Yellow Hand about scratching around in my cupboards!

 

PS I wanted to post pics of Scary and Snowy, but they came out really fuzzy. It could be due to the fact that greasy fingers have been poking around with my camera, but I dont have conclusive proof. What I really should have done is take pics of Ole Yellow Hand, hahahaha! Oh, I am enjoying that story.

Permanent PMS

PMS, if you suffer from it badly, is a terrible thing. I have two close friends who, for two weeks of the month, are somewhere between slightly emotional and practically suicidal. It must be terrible; my heart really goes out to them.

 

As for me, well, among the not-so-fun things about having polycystic ovaries (i.e. infertility, olive on a toothpick body shape), there is the advantage of hardly ever having your period.  No period means no PMS. And even when I do get it, I get it mildly.

 

I normally know when I am PMS because 2 days before I get my period, I eat as if the end of the world is nigh. I also get a bit weepy the day before, but the most obviously signal that something is up, is that my husband irritates me immensely.

 

Now, my husband usually irritates me anyway. Which is understandable as he is particularly annoying at the best of times. But during that brief one or two day PMS spell, he drives me absolutely bat shit crazy. The way he drives irritates me. Even his breathing irritates me. I look for places to hide his body wherever I go.

 

As if that is not bad enough, it is usually around this time that for some reason unknown to logical man, I decide we need to have The Talk. Suddenly, after months and years of being absolutely fine, I decide that he is not: caring enough / helpful enough / loving enough / sensitive enough etc. And then I will tell him that We Need to Talk.

 

Now, if there is something Marko hates even more than loud people, stupid people, slow drivers and his German ex boss, it is having The Talk. The words “Sweetheart, we need to talk” is enough to make his sphincter loosen.

 

Marko does not do The Talk well. Which is probably why we do it so seldom. First he gets defensive, then he gets cross, then he shouts, then I cry, then he calms down and then we both say sorry.

 

This morning I felt not unfamiliar feelings of intense irritation at my husband. He has been particularly insensitive and unloving lately. Last night I stormed out of the bedroom in a huff and slept in the spare bed the whole night because HE TOOK MY FAVOURITE PILLOW. He clearly hates me and everything about me because if he loved me he would willingly offer up the favourite pillow to me. I AM PREGNANT AFTER ALL!!

 

And then it hit me. Early pregnancy is a lot like permanent PMS.  The food cravings, the moodiness, the bloating, the intense husband hatred…..except that it lasts for three months, not three days.

 

Poor Marko. Let’s hope it passes before I find that perfect spot to bury his body.

 

PS If you are ever fortunate enough to be pregnant for the first time, enjoy and relish every single minute of it. When the second (or seventh in my case) time comes around, there is no peace for the wicked. No rest, no special treatment. In the words of my immortal husband, you will just have to “suck it up, you are pregnant, not disabled”. Where did you say that shallow grave was?

True Love

Marko: HOLA

 

Tertia: yes dear

 

Marko: what were you moaning about last night?

 

Tertia: forking hell, you forking woke me up every forking hour

you better tell that doctor i said she must fix that forking nose of yours

 

Marko: when you got married you knew these things would come, so suck it up and stop moaning

asshole

did you check on the bunnies?

 

Tertia: no ways, when i married you, your nose was in perfect working order

i want a refund

raining too much, haven't checked on bunnies

 

Marko: i married you as well when EVERYTHING was in good working order and look where we ended up

I WANT A REFUND

 

Tertia: hahaha! asshole.

 

Was it as good for you as it was for me?

Apparently, as humans we are programmed to respond to a baby’s cry. The sound of a baby crying invokes a physical reaction within ourselves, to varying degrees between individuals. It makes you feel physically uncomfortable, it can make you (usually the mother of the crying baby) feel anxious, hyper alert, distressed. There are very few people who find the sound of a crying baby melodic and relaxing. This is all part of our biological makeup as human babies are dependant on adults for their survival and the only way a baby knows how to communicate is by crying. So nature has literally designed us in a way that we are forced to take care of our young.

 

When my kids were little, I had that part of my primal self turned on super high alert. Part due to post natal depression, part due to post traumatic stress after IF and the loss of Ben, and part due to the fact that I am an anxious person anyway, my receptors were turned on Super High. It was not a nice time. Every time my children cried, I had an extreme physical reaction, it actually felt physically painful inside. It felt like some had rushed in and grabbed in my heart in a vice and turned it hard. Very tough. 

 

But as time has gone by, that extreme reaction has lessoned. I suppose as the kids become more verbal, I feel confident that I don’t need to overreact. I know now that they can tell me if they are cold, hot, sore, sick etc. Plus now they are old enough to be full of shit, so some of that crying is FAKE! Sneaky little shits.

 

But it is amazing how that instinct, that deep inside stuff remains. I see it at night. I will be asleep, snoring with mouth hanging open beautifully a slumber thanks to my glass of Chardonnay and half a sleeping pill, and my kids just go ‘ah’ in the night and my eyes snap open, my breathing stops and my heart beats faster. I lie there, in a state of absolute readiness, waiting to hear if the ‘ah’ is followed up by a serious cry or not. If it was just a brief bad dream, or talking in their sleep, I go back to sleep, but if it something more serious, I get up. Even in my sleep, I have that instinct turned on.

 

Marko- not so much.

 

On Friday night, someone (MARKO!!!) forgot to put Adam’s nappy on, so he woke up in the middle of the night crying because he was sopping wet. I got up, stripped the linen, put on clean sheets, undressed him, put on new PJ’s, a nappy, gave him a kiss and a hug and went back to sleep. I got up later for a bad dream (Kate). 

 

On Saturday night, Kate woke up crying because she had a sore tummy. I got up, took her to the loo to make a poo, gave her some medicine, lay with her for half an hour and went back to sleep. I think I woke up later for a bad dream as well. Last night was a disaster as Adam woke up coughing, Kate had a bad dream and one other incident that I can’t even remember.

 

Marko wakes up in the morning and says “how was the night?” (Meaning, how did you sleep, how were the kids?) This despite the fact that the man sleeps 20 cm away from me (where oh where is my king size bed), in a room only a few meters away from his children’s room. Clearly that instinct thing is not as switched on for him as it is for me.

 

How was the night? Clearly not as good for me as it was for you, my darling.

 

Men – annoying little fuckers. Can’t live with them, can’t kill them either.