How to Structure a Marital Dispute in Six Simple Steps

Earlier this month, the husband and I celebrated our six-year wedding anniversary. Six years! Celebration is kind of an ambitious word for what we actually did. We spent most of the day doing what we always do - whatever the toddler terrorist wants - and then went to the fancy pants movie theater in Del Mar where I could park my giant pregnant behind in a comfy recliner, kick up my swollen ankles and order ice cream in the privacy of a dark theater without fear of judgment. Sexy, I know.

I wasn't really sure what to write about to honor six years of this married union. I could talk about his cute dimples or how proud I am of the life we have built together, but hey. I'm not one for the sap. He'd think I had been kidnapped and replaced by a sweet spouse who spouts platitudes. So, as I was cooking dinner one night and feeling irritable, I thought about how in six years we have learned to structure our arguments into six simple steps. What a coincidence! When spending a lifetime together, couples fall into a comfortable routine that can be oh so predictable. In our case, we have created our own Fight Club rule book to which we strictly adhere. Here is the structure of a good Greene domestic dispute:

1. The Spark
Like any good display of pyrotechnics, it has to begin with a spark. A flash. A bang. In our case, it often begins with some innocuous comment. Something innocent with no implication of malice, yet somehow, after a day of toddler tantrums, workplace weariness and overall exhaustion it becomes the spark that ignites a colorful display of unholy matrimony.
"Hey honey, I stopped by the store and got your butter..."
"MY BUTTER? Why is it MY butter? Do you not eat butter? Are you calling me fat? I'll show you YOUR butter..."

2. The Backpedal
Inevitably, once the the fuse has been lit, trying to avoid an explosion is futile. However, in desperate times, one must at least try to diffuse the volatile situation. Damage control goes into full effect. Stammering and stumbling backward, hands held up in surrender, the backpedaling begins.
"N-n-no, I didn't mean YOUR butter, I meant OUR butter! Come on babe, you're beautiful, I love you, um, I think I left something out in my truck...I think the tiny terrorist needs me..."And with the the grace of a roadrunner chased by the coyote, a sign is held up that simply reads Uh Oh and with a poof of dust and a sound strikingly similar to a meep meep! He's gone.

3. The Slow Simmer 
Like a teapot beginning to steam, the slow simmer begins. It starts with a simple how dare he. The brain then begins to reach into the dusty files stored in the back office of the memory, stashed away only to be brought out simply for occasions such as these. The time he left his socks on the floor? What a jerk! Or how about that annoying habit he has of always leaving his clothes in the dryer so I end up folding them?! Grrrr. And how about the way he stares at me blankly while I babble on about my feelings on [insert any topic here]? Oh man. The water is now boiling, and the kettle begins to whistle shrilly.

4. The Game On
As this step implies, the heavyweights are ready to throw down. Get your ringside seating, a couple of beers and some popcorn because this is going to get interesting. You might have to get out your toddler to adult dictionary translator, however, because we are going to be arguing in sickeningly sweet voices, hushed tones and code words since we don't want the toddler to know she is witnessing a Vegas-worthy clash of titans. Hello, we're not animals. It's an epic battle of the sexes disguised as a United Nations negotiation, punctuated every so often by a silly face made at the toddler terrorist or a pause between rounds to serve the toddler dinner or tie a shoe.

5. The Insult to Injury
There comes a point in every argument where someone starts to laugh. It's usually me, as I have made an outlandish statement so obnoxious that even I can't take myself seriously. This is a dangerously deceiving moment because my worthy opponent takes this as a prime opportunity to lower the gloves, towel off the sweat and innocently say, "I don't even know what you are so upset about, anyway!"
Really? Because I literally just spent the entire last hour outlining exactly why I was mad. I was even kind enough to illustrate his shortcomings with diagrams, examples, evidence and exuberant hand gestures. So, just like that, the bell rings for round 2 and it's time to place bets on which spouse is going to receive the proverbial knockout punch.

6. The White Flag of Surrender
And then, the beauty of marriage emerges. Both fighters retire to their corner of the couch, exhausted and over it. We settle on some mind-numbing television show and without even noticing, I eventually wiggle my cold toes under his leg to keep warm and he affectionately puts his hand on my knee and just like that, wedded bliss.

Until next time.

Light it Up and Watch it Burn

It's cliche at best, but when people look at your swollen, pregnant belly, give a nostalgic smile and say with a hint of sadness to enjoy every moment because the time flies by in the blink of an eye, they truly aren't kidding. Obviously, it's impossible to enjoy every minute because, as any parent knows, toddlers are cute, adorable, diabolical assholes. Unless, of course, you are like my mother. She swears we were perfect and never acted out. I don't have the heart to break it to her, but I'm pretty sure that's the wine induced amnesia talking. I suffer from the same condition.

The toddler terrorist turned two last weekend. Two! I was going to write a sentimental post through my waterfall of tears, but then good ol'e Bugsy Malone saved the day. She wasn't going to let me get sad as I looked back fondly over the last two years, forgetting all of the hard days and remembering only the sweetest of milestones. Like the time she first smiled at me, or the day she first garbled, "love you Mama", or the way she fits perfectly in my lap allowing me to be a total weirdo and sniff the sweet scent of her baby head.

Nope. Bugsy Malone had a different agenda. On her last day of being one, she pulled out a can of kerosene, threw it over the past year, lit a match and walked away in an explosive blaze of glory as she burnt that shit to the ground.

It started with a preschool play date. The preschool teacher may very well have been Miss Honey from one of my favorite books, Matilda. And if that teacher was Miss Honey, then Bugsy was the Trunchbull. She was so intent on reconstructing the power paradigm of the preschool's educational system that after the longest hour of my life, while the toddler terrorist was getting a tattoo and taking a smoke break in the school bathroom, I fearfully asked sweet, terrorized Miss Honey if the Trunchbull was going to get kicked out of the program. She assured me that no, of course the Trunchbull was not going to get expelled. I raised a skeptical brow, certain I detected the tremble of fear of a woman who had been locked in the Chokey by a toddler terrorist a time or two.

To continue on our rambunctious roll, we went to the doctor for Bugsy's two year checkup. The toddler terrorist gave the nurse a piece of her mind as she threw every Parenting magazine in the exam room up in the air as if they were confetti. Her pediatrician couldn't get out of that room fast enough, stumbling out as he stammered, "I've always wanted a patient who would grow up to be a leader...Ma-ma-maybe she'll be president one day..."

So because she had been incredibly well-behaved, or maybe because I wanted to salvage the smoldering remains of an entire year, or - even more likely - because I am pregnant, I was traumatized, and I needed to eat my feelings - I treated Bugsy to frozen yogurt. She put on her angel face, hypnotized me into a false sense of security and charmed me into taking her to Barnes and Noble to pick out a birthday book. In addition to a book, she picked out a doctor's kit! I strutted up to the checkout line, chest puffed with pride as I contemplated her future as a world renowned brain surgeon. She really would be a leader! And just as I had completely given in to the daydream delusions of doctordom, I heard a CRASH! followed by several collective gasps.

The world blurred around me and voices became muted as I turned around in slow motion. I was met with a scene of destruction that only a toddler terrorist can create. There stood Bugsy with a look of surprise and, might I add, satisfaction, and beside her lay the shattered remains of what used to be a rather large, ceramic decorative pumpkin. Before I could spring into action, the store clerk got on the loudspeaker and announced, in a voice dripping with exasperation and disapproval, that a cleanup was needed because someone (insert stern glance in our direction) broke a ceramic pumpkin and the scene was very unsafe for customers. I quickly and shamefully paid for the broken merchandise and slunk out of there with my head hung in shame while the terrorist raised a victorious fist and declared imminent toddler revolution.

Finally, later that night, as Che Guevara Bugsy Malone nestled perfectly into my lap while I read her a bedtime story, the day's mortifying events melted away. Maybe it was the intoxicating smell of her perfect baby head that allowed me to forget the toddler guerilla warfare in which I had been engaged all day, but as I said goodnight for the last time to my perfect little one-year-old, bittersweet heartache tugged at my soul and my eyes welled with tears. What a fitting end to an amazing year.

Terrible twos...We're coming for ya!