My husband and I got into a knock-down, drag out fight today.
And he totally let me win. Probably because I fight like a girl, which is to say I bite, bend fingers backwards, and poke him in the ribs. It was epic.
It all started when…
my son asked which one of us he should list as the primary parent for contact on some of his college crap. I was busy computering, and thus slow to respond, but no fear because my husband jumped in right away to answer, “It doesn’t really matter.” Well that is obviously bull. So I pulled my head out of Blog-Land and said as much. My husband turned around from his desk and looked at me like I was a loon. He looks at me like that an awful lot. I don’t mind it though, because sometimes he is right. This, however, was NOT one of those times. He was dead wrong.
His face told me all kinds of things,
which are just over the line. His eyes said to me, “You are crazy.” He knows how much I hate being called crazy, so I don’t know why his eyes even went there, because that had to be taken as an obvious challenge. I’ll not be called crazy. No.
Then his wrinkled brow said,
“Why the hell does it matter?” And I got really ticked then, because he should know why it matters. And if it didn’t matter then why was he all turn-around-ish?
His smirky, arrogant, crinkled lips actually spoke aloud,
“No, it doesn’t matter, Darling.” Oh, it was on. It was SO on. Fuck that. Don’t challenge me and then call me “Darling” like I’m some child you can pat on the head. Except for Brussel sprouts, there is nothing I detest more than being placated.
This is what I pulled out:
“If it doesn’t matter, then why is it that he’s asking ME instead of you? And why aren’t YOU helping him fill this shit out? Just admit it. I’m the primary parent.”
He came right back at me. “Who’s the one who drives him everywhere?”
I hate driving. I hate leaving the house. I hate dealing with people, and outside, and society, and Earth. He was using my anxiety against me. I had no choice, you guys. I had to get up and poke him. He totally had it coming. You see that, right?
He actually laughed at me. And tickled me in the ribs. So then I laughed too, but it was not a “Haha, this is so funny, look at us arguing over something so silly” kind of laugh. It was a “fuck that tickles but stop before I smack those cocky lips off your face like Mr. Potato Head” kind of laugh. I grabbed his finger to make him stop that abusive tickling. He moved like he was aiming for my ribs again, so I had to bend his fingers backwards. And that’s when it got a little out of hand.
Somehow we ended up in the living room.
I had him on the couch, crushed beneath my weight, one of his pointer fingers in each of my hands, poised to break if he didn’t cease and desist. He kept saying things like, “Can we just drop this now?” and “Christ, you’re too heavy, get off of me!” and “I need to go mow the lawn!”.
I just kept repeating myself.
“Admit it. I’m the primary parent. Otherwise, get your ass back in there and help him finish that paperwork.”
He wheezed, “Weeeeed waaaacker.”
I shouted, “Admit it!”
“Weeeeed waaaacker .”
I can’t tell you how long this went on.
We were both laughing now, but completely out of breath, bruised and bit up (him, from my rabid teeth) and split-lipped (me, from laughing as I fell). Finally our son came into the room and said with a straight face, “Never mind. I just put Grandma. You two are both too immature.”
That boy is totally grounded.
So how was YOUR evening? Any exciting physical assaults you’d like to share? Or instances where your child was more adult then you were? Go ahead. Make us feel dumb.