when I want to make my husband get on all fours so I can use his back as a table

There have been moments this past months where my husband has completed requisite acts of parenting such as changing a diaper or bottle-feeding and later spoken of his accomplishments as if he had dismantled an atomic bomb. There was that pompous air in his voice as he proclaimed, “Oh yes, I changed his diaper. And it was a poopy one!”

And this is what I wanted to say but didn’t: Sir, this is not cutting the yellow wire. This is your son. I’ve done all of that, with one hand and a boob hanging out. So there.

The other night I wanted to take a nap so I carried the child into the bedroom and asked my dear husband to bring me some diapers and baby wipes. He arrived with a handful of diapers and THREE BABY WIPES. Three single ridiculous sheets of baby wipes.

And here’s what I wanted to say but didn’t: WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO DO WITH THREE FREAKING SINGLE SHEETS? MAKE ORIGAMI? FANCY NAPKIN FOLDING? HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN EVERYTHING FROM THE PARENTING CLASS? DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR SON IS CAPABLE OF?

I remained calm, thought about what Dr. Phil would have done, and said, “I think I’ll need more than three wipes, thank you very much.”

It was almost has bewildering as the time a freaky-deeky ex tried to seduce me by performing a freak-dance/mating ritual with a chair. Yes, he got all Demi Moore in Striptease on me. If we hadn’t broken up, I’m sure I would have been introduced to the rest of his slutty furniture.

My mom has this inter-species philosophy about a successful marriage: One has to be the cat and the other has to be the bull.

I have usually cast aside this, “The cat has to know how to tame the bull” mantra as one of my mom’s voodoo-nonsense. Perhaps this is one of those marriage-children-spawned epiphanies, but it makes sense. If you have two cats, you’re stuck in a restaraunt with both saying, “No, honey, you decide.” If you have two bulls, eventually one will be in the ICU with a high-heel-induced injury.

Today she said to me, “You know, I think you’re the bull.” What, me? Bullish?

Here’s where you insert the joke about how I am not the bull, but rather full of bull.

And here’s where I reach through my computer, travel the internets and punch you in the chest for laughing at me. And by you, I mean, my brother George.

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