My husband has been getting on my nerves lately, which is why I was absolutely thrilled when he volunteered to take our oldest to Cincinnati for a soccer tournament. Sure, I had to suffer through a dance competition with more drama and hair spray than I’d experienced in 1987 at my all-girls high school, but the short break from spouse-hood was sorely needed.
Is that bad? Am I a terrible wife for wanting Doo out from under foot for a bit? It’s just that recently he’s totally been screwing with my highly-sacred morning routine. See, I’m an introvert who spends all my waking hours either dealing with my own four children or a hundred and fifty of other people’s. As such, I like to begin my day with as little stimulus as possible. Normally I come downstairs to a dark and sleepy main floor, make my coffee, feed the dog, finish lunches, and head out, having only spoken briefly to my oldest daughter (who now has decided she needs thirty minutes extra to “get ready” for middle school.) Last week, however, Doo beat me to the punch every morning! The TV was at full volume, every light was a-blazing, and my husband was rat-tat-tatting on his laptop, all by five-thirty! And he wanted to talk. So my usual “me time” suddenly became “our time” and I was definitely not on board with it.
Granted, I married Doo because he is an extrovert. I love that he thrives on sounds, lights, and lots of personal interaction. But normally said extrovert is a night owl, which plays nicely into not only my morning requirements, but also my admittedly-anal-bedtime environment.
Black-hole darkness; vibrating sound machine, occasionally placed right underneath my noggin for ultimate chatter/television cancelling capability; argyle knee-sock-turned eye mask; and four not-too-hard, not-too-soft pillows. The name of the game is sensory deprivation, fans, so when Doo (with all of his contentment needs) decides nine o’clock is his time to crash too, my carefully-laid plans go to straight to hell.
Obviously, my habits drive him bonkers just as much. He commented as he skipped out the door Saturday morning, “I can’t wait to sleep in a hotel tonight!”
For both of us it seems, the time apart was lovely. We got to do our own things in the manner we like to do them without worrying about frustrating (or being frustrated by) each other’s preferences. And that made us both happier when he returned.
I am a far better person when Doo’s around, and actually need his energy to get me through many a day. But the occasional solo weekend can definitely be a nice respite. Even if it involves some dance mania. Peace out.