Every time my mother comes to Connecticut to babysit the two kids, she spends the night. It's just the way it goes. She lives a few states over. The poor woman can't spend her life on the highway.
As much as I appreciate the free (and loving) childcare, having my mother hunker down with us two or three nights a week gets old really fast, especially since we don't have a guest room. When she starts rubbing her eyes at 8:45 pm and unpacking her pajamas, Chuck and I retreat up to the bedroom.
If we were a horny pair of 17-year-old virgins, the last part of that sentence would have ended with Wink, wink. (Or heavy petting followed by wahooooooo! Again!) Sadly, we are a somewhat middle-aged pair of stressed out, exhausted parents who are leaking hormones left and right.
Instead of rockin' the roost, we have conversations like this one:
Me: Why don't we like horses? Shouldn't one of us like horses?
Chuck: I don't know.
Me: Some people really like horses. What happened to us?
Chuck: Um, I don't know.
Me: Should we go to a stable and try to like a horse? You know, brush one or something?
Chuck: If you want to...
Me: People who like horses seem to like to brush them. Maybe that's what happened: We never got into grooming a horse.
Chuck: Could be.
Me: Would you go to a stable with me? If I suddenly became obsessed with horses? Even if we had to get up at eight in the morning and drag the kids? Even if it was the last thing you wanted to do?
Chuck: I guess.
Me: What do you mean, You guess?
Chuck: I mean, sure.
Me: It's that kind of ambivalence that's going to lead us straight to divorce court.
Chuck: [Sigh] Really? We're going to divorce because of a horse we don't even know if we like?
Me: Stranger things have happened.
Chuck: I think we should go to sleep.
Me: What about the horse thing? Shouldn't we make a decision? Like, are we horse people or not?
Chuck: We're not! Shut up and go to sleep.
Me: I guess you never read Black Beauty as a kid...
Me: You're not even going to try to get with me?
Chuck: All the horse talk kind of killed it.
Me: If this marriage is going to work, you're going to have to love me and my horse.
Chuck: Please stop talking.
Me: Would it help if I said, 'Ride me?' "
Me: Do you want to brush my long mane?
Me: FINE! Sheesh.
Chuck: [Rolling over] Do you think your mom would ever sleep in the garage?
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.