I have been married to my husband for almost seven years, and we’ve been officially together for almost nine. And throughout the course of our courtship and nuptials, both of us have really put up with more than our share of crap from each other. Ok, ok, so I know you’re probably puzzled as to how it is possible that someone who is as completely charming as me gives her husband any sort of grief. Well let me be the first to tell you that this mama can really dish it out. I can be a total pain in the ass…but I guess maybe that’s part of my allure?
I mean, I’ve yelled at the poor dude for things that I really just have no business yelling at him for…like using the half bath downstairs to do a number two instead of going upstairs and cowering away in poop shame in the master boudoir. That one has set me off more than once. But shouldn’t the man be allowed to do his business on any throne he chooses in HIS OWN HOME? Apparently that request is just way too big for The Mommyologist. Because for whatever reason, man poop just really turns her off. And we all know that she shits ice cream.
And every time that I give the poor hubster a hard time about his bathroom location choice, he just kind of mumbles, “Ok, ok, I’m really sorry….” and sprays a ton of air freshener and vows to trek up the stairs the next time nature calls. And sometimes I really don’t know why he lets me off the hook so easy for being such a mega-bitch. Because what he SHOULD say to me each time that I deem myself to be the “Poop Cop” is:
“LISTEN woman…this is MY house and I work hard to pay the damn mortgage and because I work hard to pay the damn mortgage it gives me the right to drop a deuce in any bathroom in this house without any objections from my wife!!”
As hard as it’s going to be, I think that, starting today, May 18th, the Poop Cop is just going to have to turn in her badge.
Because sometimes in a marriage, you really have to suck it up and put up with a load of crap. It’s just part of the deal.
And my wonderful husband took that concept to a whole new level this past weekend.
You see, instead of spending Saturday outside enjoying the beautiful, nearly 70 degree sunny weather with our four year old, the hubster and I spent the better part of the day in the Emergency Room with me hooked up to an IV looking white as a ghost. My parents were in town for the first time in way over a year, and we’d been out to dinner the night before to celebrate my Dad’s birthday. And as I sat there and looked at the menu at the fairly upscale establishment we were dining at, I debated over whether to order a filet and baked potato, or the filet and crab-cake combo with the baked potato. And if I had a time machine, I would most definitely travel back to Friday night and tell myself to forgo the damn crab-cake. Because the doctors were 99% sure that it was what landed me in the ER with severe dehydration. You can figure out the other ugly details on your own.
In order to determine what exactly was making me sick, the nurse told me that they were going to need “a sample.” And I’m not talking about peeing in a cup, though I had the pleasure of doing that too.
And in order to obtain this sample, I had to unhook my IV bag from it’s little rack and carry it into the bathroom with me. And being the great guy that he is, my hubby offered to stand in the bathroom with me and hold that IV bag so that I could, quite literally, shit into a hat. I politely declined his offer because I figured I HAD to draw the line somewhere.
But before he handed me the IV bag and shut the bathroom door, he asked if I needed anything. And it was at that point that I looked at him and said, “Yeah…can you please pull down my thong so I can go? I can’t do it with one hand.”
And I’m sure being that this was a Saturday and we had my parents in town so we had a free babysitter and were supposed to have a date night that night and all, the hubster would’ve LOVED for me to ask him to pull down my thong. But I’m pretty sure this wasn’t the scenario he had in mind.
There I was, in an Emergency Room bathroom, asking the hubster to pull down my thong so that I could give the nurse a stool sample. Not exactly a Mom Sexy moment.
Yeah, this poor guy has put up with more than his share of crap. And minus my parents and a couple choice girlfriends, there isn’t another person on this planet who would.
I love you honey. And yes, you can do whatever you want in the half bath from now on. And if I try and change my mind in the future, you only need to say two words to me. ”STOOL SAMPLE.”