momzonroof

… she's not coming down 'til it all makes sense again…

Mr Furious

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Spent half of Thursday night (instead of sleeping), and most of Friday morning (instead of enjoying the yardsails), seething with a quiet rage against my Hubs… a fury that boiled my blood and sent poison darts of pain into my stomach…  Meanwhile, Hubs was downstairs,  sleeping the sleep of the innocent… and the damned. Only he didn’t know it yet. Here’s what I looked like:

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mr_furious_super

That’s Ben Stiller in “Mystery Men”. You see that vein pulsing in his forehead? That is not something to mess with, I had that one going, plus both temples, plus I could feel my heart beating in my stomach, and the churning, churning, ever churning of the vile acid…

Meanwhile, here’s what Hubs looked like:

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Anne_Geddes_pea_in_a_pod(pic borrowed from Anne Geddes)

What could he possibly have done? Oh what? He’s great, isn’t he, everyone loves this guy, he’s just a kind soul, easy goin’… all-around nice guy. The kinda guy who plays Yahtzee with your grandmother…takes your Great Aunt Shirley to her first Steelers game… babysits your niece and nephew on his day off, so you can go out gallivantin’ with your sister…

It involved something that looked like this:

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broken-bottle

That night he was sleeping down in our bedroom, I was still upstairs on the couch with the dogs where I had passed out… I hear him get up in the middle of the night, probably about 2am, and he goes into the laundry room. Why? I don’t know. He could be peeing in the utility sink for all I know… too tired to walk upstairs?  I hope not. But will be investigating later…

I hear a big jangling shattering glassy crash, and then I hear him moofing and ooomphing about, and I’m waiting to hear him clean it up, but instead he goes right back to bed!! And I lay there… and I lay there… waiting to hear that broom come out, or a piece of cardboard, or a bag… ANYTHING. Any form of effort will do here. I’ll take anything. But nothing.. crickets…

It’s 2am. The kids get up at 6am. They sometimes floomp heavily down the stairs and into the laundry room in search of the clean clothes they should’ve put away yesterday… floomp floomp floomp, in the dark, and they’re gonna slice their foot off at the ankle… I just knew it. I didn’t know what he broke, but it sounded awful. I lay there and projected and worried and fumed… someone was gonna get a sliver, and then an infection, and then hospitalized. He’ s never spent the night in the hospital with a sick kid hooked to an IV… I have, several times. So I projected them all the way into the hospital, and I got angrier and angrier…

I finally went down and saw the broken glass. It was stemware I had set near the laundry room door, ready to go in the goodwill box… I KNOW I should’ve put it in the box, but it just hadn’t made it yet. I know it’s my fault too that the glass broke. But who breaks a glass and goes back to bed with the jagged shards laying on the floor?!!! My husband??? Seriously??? WHO is this man?! All these years I thought he loved our children…

Here’s the tiny little part where I’m a tiny bit proud of myself. I breathed it out. I really put my mindfulness skillz into play. Especially when I walked in the room and saw him there in his little pea pod, already snoring blissfully… I said, Ummmm, June? Did you break this glass? You gonna clean it up?:??? He mumbled something about “Yeah, I’ll get it later” and turned over and slept again.  Oh great lord creator, give me strength…

I went in the garage and found the broom and dustpan and gritted and grinded my teeth nearly up into my CRANIUM as I cleaned it up. I couldn’t believe that this MAN, this FATHER, of CHILDREN would knowingly and with total disregard or concern let shards of jagged glass lay surely in their paths.

Just then the nice angels visited and protected my husband from the black storm of unholy WRATH that brewed up from the depths of my soul. The angels carried me back up the stairs and told me to lie on the couch and watch youtoobs of Dr. Sapolsky and his baboons… learn a little something, since I was awake anyways…

And I did learn some stuff. I didn’t sleep much. The rage came and went and came and went and came back and stayed.  I got the kids off to school with their peanut butter sandwiches, juice boxes, and apple wedges…

As soon as they shut the door as they headed to the bus, I could feel my spleen kick into high gear, churning out a fresh batch of vile poison… I could hear him snoring downstairs, snoring, snoring, ever snoring… as I seethed…

I decided to go yardsailing, and hopefully not return until he left for afternoon-shift… that was my master plan of mindfulness. Avoidance.  You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to…

When he finally arose from his surely dream-filled slumber, he called me to see how my day was going, like he DOES… and ohhhh I gave him the cold freezing arctic shoulder phone convo.. single syllable answers, 3 second lag-times, and full minutes of dead air… I have the mother of all cold shoulders.  And he starts to get worried. And his stomach starts to churn. (he tells me this later) He can’t figure out what’s up, but he knows I’m furious. I won’t say anything. I wait. I expect him to come up with some explanation for last night, but I can’t formulate even a possibility of what it might be. How could you let glass lay for your kids. I couldn’t entertain any explanation. it didn’t make sense. Who was this person.

Finally, I got groceries and had melty freezer stuff in the car, so I had to go home. He sat on the couch as I unloaded the groceries and hauled them through both garages and upstairs. He waited until I had ALL SIX bags up two flights of stairs before he got up and said, Oh? You got groceries? Why didn’t you say so, I would’ve helped.

Sigh. We have a split-entry, ya’ll. You can see and hear EVERYTHING that goes on in the entire house FROM THE COUCH. The couch is the EPICENTER of the house, literally. The SOLAR PLEXUS.  The sound of a person hefting 980 lbs of groceries up the steps is DEAFENING from the couch. At this point I thought the body snatchers must’ve taken my real husband away. I was breathing like a freight train, but I was breathing. I was workin’ my practice, baby, workin’ it. The vein in my forehead throbbed.. but I breathed…

I put away the groceries and went outside. And waited. What was I waiting for? I was waiting for it all to make sense again, just like the little tagline at the top of this page. Sometimes we have to breathe and wait. And hope…

He cracked the door open and peered out. He stuck one toe out, to see if I’d bite. I sat on the stoop and just … I don’t know, I was furious, but somehow at peace. It was an icy black peace though… I think I was shutting down so as not to enter the red zone..  The rest of the story is extremely disappointing and anti-climactic. He slithers out through a 4 inch crack in the door, he walks the longest walk down the longest sidewalk of eminent doom, he sits beside me, and he says, Hon, WHAT is going on. I say, you don’t know? How about last night? With the glass? He says, what glass? Are you serious?! Yeah, what glass? You don’t remember? NO!! What happened?

So we talked. He had no recall of any glass or the laundry room, or the furious little dustpanning wife. He was sleepwalking. He was mortified when I told him about the glass. And I spend 12 hours of my life, synthesizing poisonous stress hormones, and pumping them through my veins. Or whatever, my ARTERIES, whatever… “Veins” sounds better.

So I document. And I learn. Hopefully.

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One thought on “Mr Furious

  1. Guys are goofy. What can I say?

And what about Naomi?

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