The love between a parent and child is unconditional. My daughters had all of my love the second they came into exsistence, for me that means the second I peed on those three cheap pregnancy test sticks.

Ok, maybe it was more like 5 minutes after once I regained consciousness, but it was pretty fast, the love…  pretty fast. A little bit of panic does everyone some good, me, the baby, the random store clerk who suffered a small injury to her inner arm when I threw six pregnancy test boxes at her. Really, it was pretty fast, the love.

You know what is not unconditional?

Loving my husband.

 
Yup, I said it. I know that might sound awful, but it’s the friggen truth peeps. I didn’t make him in my womb and birth him. He wasn’t brought into this world in the complete and all consuming perfection that my children were.

I’m pretty sure I’m living daily life in Dante’s Inferno slowly making my way down to the gates of hell. These kids demand everything from me. I have to talk myself out of smothering him with the pillow everynight when I wake up to take care of our kids dozens of times and he snores peacefully unaware of it all. He doesn’t know that I’ve finally caved and let Evie sleep in our bed. He just snores.

Put the pillow down, you love him, just put the pillow down.






I made it very clear early on that my husband should expect nothing. He comes home from work and sure he hopes I’ve kept at least a majority of the kids alive. There is no “where’s dinner” in this house. If dinner is made he sits down and we eat as a family. If dinner is chicken nuggets again he sits down and we eat as a family. If he walks they the door and I’m crying in the closet, he starts fixing dinner and refills my wine glass.

We do not keep track of who last took out the garbage. We just do it.

There is nothing glamorous about marriage and parenting. No pretty rose peddles in soft mood lighting. Just hard core stobe light inducing seizures that are cute miniature people who say they love you, and hate you, and bite you. It’s us against them. We can’t turn on each other…
Marriage is the hardest love. It’s not like the love for my children. I have to choose to love my husband everyday. After five years, three kids, three different homes, two jobs, I still sing “I don’t want no scrub” when he starts to piss me off. Everyday he comes home after a long day of work to a messy house, and a messy wife who probably spent too much money online shopping; and he never has anything but good things to say about me. I’m sure bouncing around inside that head of his is some pretty awful things he could say; but his conditional love for me and my ever changing state is pretty beautiful.

 

“Pick up your damn socks, AHHH! I don’t want no scrub….” I sing to myself following his trail of clothes are our house. I love him, he is a good man, let the socks go.

 

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