Better Than a Punch in the Face

Look. I love my husband. From the minute I saw his sparkling green eyes, I knew we would eventually end up together. He's helpful. He's chivalrous. I mean, to the point where it almost makes you puke. He's the kind of guy who helps little old ladies across the street. The type of dashing dude who rushes to hold the door open at the grocery store for the pregnant lady struggling to corral three unruly children while balancing an armful of groceries. The handsome husband your friends adore because he keeps a low profile on girls nights, appearing just long enough to make sure that their wine glasses are never empty and the snacks never run out. He's handy. There isn't anything he can't fix, nothing he can't build, although a lot of the time it is stuck together with spit and duct tape. He's funny. Half the time he doesn't even mean to be, which is even funnier.

But sometimes I want to punch him in his helpful, chivalrous, handsome, handy, funny face. Don't flash those dimples at me, buddy. This Greene is seeing nothing but red.

The delicate eco system that is a marriage can be easily disrupted by the strangest and most mundane of things - random rock collecting, plant hoarding, the blatant disrespect for throw pillows - seriously, those aren't meant to be used as real pillows! - but you throw a baby terrorist into the mix and not only do I feel like a punch to the face is warranted, it should be expected.

Now, I've never considered myself to be what one might call a reasonable person. I am highly emotional, quick to react, slightly neurotic. I'm a Virgo, so that just goes without saying. However, I find my blood boiling over things that were never in my vocabulary prior to birthing a baby terrorist. The Diaper Genie is overflowing again? Revenge is a dish best served cold with a side of old poopy diapers. I'm up in the middle of the night for the zillionth time in a row because I have super sonic powers that allow only me to hear the baby cry? I'm sorry honey, I didn't mean to kick you on my way out of bed to comfort our child.

The poor husband works an insane schedule to bring home the bacon. I've never been all that good at math, but my non robotic brain does not quite compute how one person can work 90 hours in one week. Add a work schedule that includes travel and it's a recipe for resentment. I too am gainfully employed and the work day doesn't end when I clock out. That sweet little baby terrorist is awfully demanding and pretty stingy with the paychecks - she owes me 10 months of back pay. I've tried a mob style shakedown of her piggy bank, but no dice. So, if you add the 40 and carry the 1, subtract the free time and divide it by 2, this leaves about exactly zero hours for the husband and I to be husband and wife. We become all about business, all did the baby poop today and did you pay the mortgage and baby did you throw away my growing hoard of carefully stolen rocks?! You know, the stuff normal couples fight about.

So when the opportunity for a date night shows it's fickle face, you obviously have to put your right hook back in your pocket, comb your hair for the first time in a few weeks, brush the cobwebs off your makeup bag, put on your best pureed fruit free outfit, drink a few thousand cups of coffee because good god, 7:00 is awfully late to begin your night, and head out on the town with your helpful, chivalrous, handsome, handy, funny partner. And after a few glasses of wine, you remember that you kind of like old what's his face! (Though if we're being honest, after a few glasses of wine I pretty much kind of like everybody.)

We spent our night acting like younger, more carefree versions of ourselves punctuated by the sudden need to compulsively spy on our mini terrorist on the baby monitor. Staring at her sleep through the monitor app on my phone made us the weirdest couple at the bar, but I'll tell you this much - it sure does beat a punch in the face.

Little Miss Holy Terror

A while back, we had our little baby terrorist baptized. We figured it couldn't hurt. She got to wear a pretty white dress, we got to hang out with our closest family and friends, and if God smiled down on us and helped the little terror sleep through the night and wreak a tad less havoc, then it was all worth it.


I spent a good portion of my youth quietly suffering through Mass, bored but well behaved because of the divine promise not of heaven but rather donuts afterward. Throughout my teen years, I rebelled and insisted on making my mother rue the day she decided to enroll me in Catholic school. Though fun, I was eventually plagued by the Catholic guilt that inevitably follows no matter how enjoyable giving the middle fingered salute to the religion (and the Catholic school uniform) that I love to hate and, as I got older, begrudgingly hated to love.


And so, for the cosmic and profound reasons stated above, I began the process of attempting to have little Miss Holy Terror baptized.


Those Catholics don't make it easy. First of all, my husband and I weren't married in the Catholic Church. I really wanted to get married by the ocean and I wanted the ceremony to be really short because let's face it, as seriously as one should take marriage, I wanted to zoom through the vows and get straight to the booze. I do, I do, smooch smooch, lawfully wed, let's drink to that. Unfortunately, in my haste to toast to marital bliss, I inadvertently made it difficult to baptize the baby that was but a twinkle in our buzzed eyes.


The Church wanted us to get remarried by the priest. Not only that, they made us attend Mass three times and then attend a class before they would even agree to take our monetary donation that would ensure our daughter's salvation. We went to the mandated Mass, took notes because I was worried that there might be a pop quiz, and eventually were cleared to baptize the mini.


The day of the baptism was beautiful but intimidating because I was convinced that the priest was trying to trick me. First off, he indicated that the parents should sit in the front row. Completely forgetting that I am indeed a parent, I ushered my mom and dad into the front row. The priest raised an eyebrow at me as he questioned whether or not I was the mother of the baby. Oh right. Sometimes I forget that I was not just a gestational carrier, that I am not just keeping the baby terrorist alive until her real mother returns. Sheepishly, I traded places with my mom and took my rightful spot next to my husband as the actual parental units.


He then proceeded to ask what we were asking of the church today. I knew there was going to be a pop quiz! I was not prepared. I started to sweat profusely. My heart raced. I am such a fraud, I am hardly Catholic, I didn't know there was going to be a test, I didn't study...I opened and closed my mouth soundlessly, at a loss for words (which is a rare occurrence for this babbling Brooke) and gave an alarmed look at my husband. He looked at me, worried that perhaps I was having a stroke, and answered the priest.


"We are here to baptize our daughter," he said calmly.


Oh, right. That's what we're here for. Well that was a trick question! Anyone could have been fooled by that. I gathered my composure, sat up straight, and assumed what I thought was the air of a no nonsense mother there to guarantee her child a coveted spot in heaven.


"And what name have you chosen for your child?" the priest asked.


SHIT! I didn't know I was supposed to pick out a NAME! I racked my brain quickly for a nice sounding Catholic name. I should have paid closer attention in my high school religion classes. All that Vacation Bible School wasted. Ruth? Esther? Esther! That's a good one! I opened my mouth to shout my well thought out choice when I heard my sister say slowly -


"Reeeeeaaaaagannn..." with a sidelong glance in my direction.


Wow. The answer was that easy, huh. I just had to tell the priest her real name. Again, what a trick question! That priest was shifty, I am telling you. I quickly regrouped, hoping that God was too busy to read my thoughts, and left the question answering to my husband and sister for the remainder of the ceremony.


So though it wasn't without a hitch, the baby terrorist was upgraded to a Holy Terror and this mama was reminded that I am in serious need of some salvation.