Here's a load of crazy

Steve's job lately has been... well it just wasn't what I envisioned when I thought about being married to the Army a soldier in the Army. I guess I pictured what I had grown up seeing (since I grew up in an Army town): early mornings of PT, dads getting off of work at a very reasonable daylight hour, wives doing their grocery shopping at the commissary, and loads of hot Army guys wandering about in their smokin'-hot uniforms. Present Jenn can look back at Past Jenn and smirk because, oh Past Jenn, you are so stupid. It is not like that at all.

He goes to PT at 4:30am and wakes up not only you (you have turned into quite the light sleeper with this pregnancy), but the BAYBEE as well, and that puts a bit of a damper on your whole day, waking up at 4:30 and all. No more grand visions of being that careless housewife that sleeps in til 8 when he gets back home. Then once you get the screaming child out of bed and fight him over the poopy diaper that he does not want to relinquish control over, you go downstairs to find that, indeed, your dreams did not materialize while you were sleeping; your dishwasher is still not usable and those dishwashing fairies have still not located your house. Something about moving five times in two years makes you harder to keep track of. So you try pacifying the tiny person with milk and whatever kitchen "toys" he would like to play with. Then your dashing husband waltzes in... and cannot believe that you didn't remember that this is command maintenance day! Come on! He's gotta shower and leave and he really needs to eat breakfast!

Hurry to make big person and little person breakfast. Make yourself coffee because you know it is necessary to function today. Get caught up in breakfast and dishes and forget about coffee. Reheat it 67 times. Take a total of four sips. Finally dump it because it is almost lunch time and it probably tastes like leaded gasoline by now anyways.

Husband (who is considerably less dashing after recounting what your tuna casserole "did to him" this morning) leaves for work. Says it will be another late night. You roll your eyes because this sounds like a cop-out to you. He knows the small person turns into some possessed demon in the afternoon hours, and you're betting that work is more fun. They probably have parties there. With cupcakes. And Coke. And they probably laugh about their wives, sitting at home with the whiny children, and think to themselves how lucky they are to avoid the witching hour yet again.

You go about your day and do chores and laundry and change diapers and fix sippy cups and play cars and read books. Just when you are getting ready for the most important (and sometimes only!) nap of the day, you get a text or call that the husband will not be able to come home for lunch. Something came up last minute. Gotta work straight through. Can you bring him something?

Of course! Baby is screaming, so ready to go to sleep, but you plop him on the floor and try to make dish soap look like an interesting toy while you slap together some sandwiches and fruit and chips and fill up a water bottle. Fight the little person into his carseat, again try to pacify him with milk. And Jason Aldean. Such a love-hate relationship you have with Jason Aldean.

You get to work. You text husband that you are here. He texts back, "Be out in a minute." Ten minutes tick by. Angry, sleepy child in the backseat is not happy about this delay. You do your best to play peekaboo and sing silly songs and then kick yourself for not stocking your car with more toys. Another text: "Five more minutes." GAH you cannot keep this up much longer. He finally comes out, runs to the car, grabs his lunch, gives you a quick kiss, tells you that they're super busy and he's gotta get back in there (they're probably playing Yahtzee!), and runs back inside. You speed home (at 25mph) and practically launch the baby into his crib. Good NIGHT, I hope you sleep at least four hours.

Get to work cleaning up the destruction left in the wake of maniacal baby, fold the clothes, swap out laundry, feed the dogs, check to see if you remembered to defrost anything for dinner. You did not. Damn. Pull out some frozen chicken and hope that your thaw-out-vibes help the process go a little faster.

Angry baby-child wakes up. You force-feed him lunch because he's being a picky brat. You go over in your head all of the things you'd like to say your (less and less dashing) husband about how he REALLY needs to keep it down in the morning because 4:30am wake-ups don't make ANYONE happy and look who's gotta pay the price (ME), and *&@#^&$#&*@!@&^%!!!

Clean up the baby, clean up lunch, run some errands, get home to make dinner. A miracle has occurred and the chicken is ready to cook. You silently thank God and apologize for your previous outbursts. The small person is not excited about your paying more attention to dinner than you are to him. More tantrums. Feed the baby while dinner cooks. More playtime, although this time you are required to play too because it is just too much for him to handle on his own. Husband sends vague text message about how much work there still is to do. Gotta meet with so-and-so and go over the such-and-such and it can't wait til tomorrow. Gotta get it done tonight. I ask if tonight is a bath night and cross all of my fingers and toes that it's not. He texts back. It is. Damn. Schlep the super-whiny person upstairs. Another diaper struggle ensues. You win. Once he is naked, he's happy. He plays happily in the tub. Then he stands up and pees in the tub. Strongly opposes getting out (because sitting in filthy bathwater and urine is desirable apparently). You brush his teeth and lotion him up, squeeze him into his pajamas and realize that he has tossed all of his pacifiers between the wall and his crib. You realize that your short, fat arms will not fit in that tiny space. You move the entire crib out from the wall with your superhuman pregnancy strength and the small person is pissed that you are taking so long in locating his sucking device. Find approximately 36 pacifiers against the wall. Blow one off and hand it to him. Crank up the mobile and bolt out the door.

You have the chicken timed to come out of the oven just when husband said he would get home. Once you get downstairs though, you find that you have a text saying that it will be at least an hour from when he last said he would get home. Curse the Army, curse your husband, and curse yourself for even bothering to cook dinner.

Husband gets home. The rational side of your brain is SCREAMING at you that his being late is not his fault (unless they really are having fun Yahtzee parties over there) and you tell yourself to just be nice. Let it go. But you cannot. You have been strapped with this fussy mini-monster all day and reheating a dinner that was perfectly acceptable an hour ago just makes you MAD. So you end up giving him some modified version of the silent treatment (a la moody 16-year-old) and ask about his day. You then unleash all sorts of profanities against the people responsible for keeping him there so long and offer stupid suggestions about what he should say to them the next time they ask for something. ("Oh tell him to shove it up his...") This is obviously not helpful but it sort of makes you feel better.

You realize that you should really be on the same team as your husband and wish that you had someONE to target your anger at. Dashing husband does not deserve it. He is doing the best he can whilst working for a load of idiots. Whiny baby does not deserve it (although would it KILL him to take a second nap in the afternoon?). Who deserves it??? You have GOT to unleash this anger somewhere, at someONE, but can't figure out who exactly deserves the crazy you're ready to dish out.

So. Who wants to go ahead and bet that I'll be checked into a mental hospital by the time the plane takes off for the deployment? Any takers?