I can love him so, and I can want to throw salted lemons into his bare naked eyeballs.
Yes, my husband Anson. I know all marriages have ups and downs and sideways-es and diagonals, but I am somewhat shocked by how within a 24-hour period I can be of two minds. The first mind being: “I am ever-so-very-lucky. He is gorgeous and sweet and-Oh Mercy-look how the baby is hugging him I should just die now from The Happy.” The second mind being: “I am going to throw a salted lemon into his bare naked eyeball, etc.”
On Saturday, we were traipsing around Governor’s Island with Roan, his friend Javier, the babies, my mother, and her husband. It was a beautiful Autumn day, and we were swinging on swings at sunset. The lights of Manhattan were beginning to light up, and the Statue of Liberty was about a stone’s-throw away. I was breastfeeding the little dudes on a bench swing while Javier and Roan ran around like maniacs and Anson played with whichever baby was not attached to me. It was one of those moments. I decided life was truly perfect right then. In love with NYC, in love with these babies, in love with my big boy Ro, and totally in love with my husband.
Cut to one night later where I’m emphatically emphasizing, reiterating, stressing, punctuating, accenting and accentuating the danger balloons pose to babies with my eldest. The thing is, balloons scare the holy hell out of me. I once saw a child choking on one, and it was brutal. He lived, he was fine. But you can’t grab a piece of balloon out of a babies throat like a piece of food. It sticks. It’s a perfect design to hurt a little one. And Roan just got a big pack of balloons that he loves playing with, and popping and as luck would have it the twins enjoy putting the pieces of anything and everything at all into their mouths. Particularly brightly colored stretchy balloons.
And possibly I’m going overboard in explaining it to Roan. But I had told him once, twice, and thrice and still found a balloon tucked under the couch right next to where the little tiny tyrants store all of their toys. So I’m speaking in my slow and deliberate voice, with my eyebrows raised, and hands gesticulating meaningfully while getting more and more descriptive about why this is so important when Anson pipes in with this helpful gem:
Ok you two. Let’s wrap this up.
Oh. No. He. Didn’t.
Now. I’m tempted to write about all the ways this statement made me mad, and why it incurred such wrath but I’ll just let you, my readers fill in those blanks. I mean, if it seems harmless to you that’s cool. You can let me hear that in the comments. But. In the interest of facilitating happy marriages world-wide, I would helpfully suggest to any and all husbands out there that whilst your wife is in the middle of imparting great wisdom to your progeny, you not speak to her as if she is one of said progeny and more importantly not suggest she “wrap it up”.
So – the weekend. Wildly good, and mildly bad. That’s probably the take away lesson of what marriage is. As long as it’s at least balanced, you know? As many (hopefully more) good times as bad times and you’re probably ok. What say you, reader?