Oh man … has it really been a week? Oops.
Full recap of the weekend … the wedding, the visiting, the dog sneezes, the fireworks … coming tomorrow. With photos, of course. Because I love you.
Alright, let’s get to it.
So I wrote yesterday, RIGHT on the heels of a rather heated (well, for me) argument. Decided not to post it until I cooled down. Let me just say … SMART DECISION. There’s no need to post in the middle of angry time. It just leads to trouble.
Long story short, Tuesday night the husband wrecked his bicycle (wasn’t wearing a helmet – IDIOT), fought me on the going to the hospital issue, and finally ended up with a stern talking to (from the doctor, about the lack-o-helmet), 2 staples in his head, a newly scrubbed arm (road rash is a nasty thing), a clean CT scan, and one hell of a headache. Oh, and a field sobriety test at 3am, per doctors orders (yah, he was REALLY happy I woke him up. Gotta watch out for those brain injuries!).
Now, Tuesday was supposed to be my first full night’s sleep in my own bed in 5 days. Clearly, that didn’t happen, but I wasn’t fussed … he was hurt and needed to be taken care of, right? Right. The trouble started the next morning.
He’s tired. He hurts. The staples are pulling his hair. And this is my fault, for making him go the hospital. He doesn’t WANNA take medication for the hurt. Leaning back so I can wash his hair around the staples (that can’t get wet) is UNCOMFORTABLE. I’m doing this on purpose. He doesn’t see the need to hurry and just wants to take the train, and I’m the bad guy for insisting on driving (he is on a 24 hour concussion watch after all). He’s generally pissed off and snarky, because his head hurts. We argue. I cry.
::sighs::
It is incredibly hard to remain sympathetic to someone when they are being a royal brat. I wanted to be able to push it off as he’s-doing-this-because-he-hurts, but it’s HARD! I feel taken advantage of, and under-appreciated, and everything that goes along with it … and that’s never a good situation. I wonder if he felt like this when I broke my arm, but remember that I was upset when he DIDN’T help me, and only grateful when he did. But I WAS bratty. Big time. (I blame the drugs.) And having someone you’re worried about be a brat to you? Terrible freaking feeling. Terrible.
And then there’s last night. He comes home, and wants cuddles and attention and loves and to be taken care of. He apologizes for being a dick to me, and admits he hurts and feels like crap. We soothe each other for a while, and then head to sleep. This morning he thanks me for washing his hair. And doesn’t complain, even when I accidentally pour a cup of water right in his ear while rinsing. (Oops.) He’s kind and supportive, and humors me when I desperately need to take care of him, for my own sake.
Ah married life. I imagine this is what yo-yos must feel like.
Little Pieces Everywhere 