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.