I have become the toddler in the house. Dependent on Eric for everything I want or need - a bath, my hair washed, food, trying to get comfortable enough to fall asleep in bed, and then messing it all up having to use the restroom in the middle of the night. I am the toddler who knows what I want but can't do it for myself.
I don't have a language barrier like small baby people do. Communicating my needs is not the problem but I do have a sense of empathy for Eric and don't want to drive him crazy with too many requests. So, I limit my demands and bide my time but could easily flip into the "terrible twos" and explode due to all of the frustration in my head.
Over the weekend, I was pampered and bathed. Had my hair washed, body rubbed down with lotion, and gently kissed, stroked, and loved. It was wonderful and Eric did everything right. I will cherish that memory for a lifetime.
Here's where I come off as a total ungrateful bitch.
Less than half a day later, I'm a raging maniac. I have so much frustration built up that I truly want to scream at the top of my lungs. Eric was in the study, working on some stuff from home. HOME. Yes, he's here. It is what I wanted. Needed. I am so happy about it but rather than smiling I'm stuck on this couch screaming, "PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!!"
Eric hands me my laptop. "Write something," he says.
"I need to run around," I wail. "I need to get off this damn couch."
Eric hands me a sandwich. "Eat something," he says.
"I need to be outside," I moan. "I need sunlight and fresh air and freedom."
Eric hands me a book. "Read something," he says.
"I am not a sit still passive kind of person," I snap. "I can't spend my whole life just sitting on my ass doing nothing."
"Young lady," he said coming over and plunking down next to me. "If either of us could have our way right now, you wouldn't be able to sit on your ass because I would have taken a belt to you three days ago when you mouthed off for the first time."
I blinked at him, seeing the color in his cheeks and the furrowed brow on his forehead.
"You can still spank me," I mumbled, head down and wondering if he could hear the pleading in my voice or if it was over shadowed by my distaste that he hadn't already upended and completely spanked my bottom.
"I'm not doing it," he replied. "I'm not going to spank you when you're all bandaged up and just had surgery. Get it out of your head, Amy Lynn. It's not going to happen."
I yelled. I mean, I literally yelled. There were no words. It was just loud and guttural, like an angry bear in the woods. (Not that angry bears in the woods growl like that. It's just the idea I have in my brain of what a bear in the woods would do if he or she were angry.)
Anyway. Eric laughed.
You read that right.
He sat there, shaking his head, and laughing at the verbal fit I was throwing from the couch.
"Looks like somebody's got the tiger by her tail," he said between giggles.
I was so angry, the pressure inside me rapidly grew and then, like a volcano erupting, I burst out and laughed too. There really was nothing else to do. We are both beyond frustrated and only time can change this situation. It is absolutely out of our control. No way around it. It is what it is.
After we wiped our tears away (yes, we laughed so hard we were crying), Eric gave me a hug and kissed my mouth hard.
"I'm going back to work," he said. "but don't think once that knee is fixed, you won't be getting paddled for all of this whining. I'm keeping track."
He winked and I grinned. Beamed, as it were. Under a blankie and flannel pajama's, my bottom tingled in anticipation of his palm, the cheese board, Sir Strap; anything crashing down and setting it on fire.
Our frustration has dropped about 12% since that little repartee. Eric is back in the study and I'm blogging. Both of us are waiting. Patiently. (NOT really. Patience is the gene I was born without.)
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Maybe I should make Eric a card out of red construction paper like I did back in elementary school. Love the idea but of course, I would have to ask him to get the art stuff out of the upstairs closet.
Here we go again.