Good Intentions

Yesterday, there was no coming home early. For various reasons, James had to work from 9:00am to about 1:30am. He’s had to do double shifts before, but at least during the week, the store closes at 11:00pm instead of 1:00am. It makes a difference.

So because I’m, like, the best wife ever (and stuff), my Sunday morning routine usually involves leaving him as alone as possible between the time that M wakes up and I have to leave for work. And since M has a regular nap time that should leave me enough time to shower, get dressed and get out of there, I shouldn’t have to wake James until the very last possible moment before I’m out the door. Ideally.

Realistically, however, even though M napped at 9:00am like clockwork for the last two or three days straight, today he decided he wasn’t having any of it and took an hour to almost finally fall asleep. And then he still didn’t. During the pre-nap proceedings, I tried to relax and figured if I was a little late to work today, I wouldn’t mind because I would be giving James a very deserved extra hour or so to sleep in.

But I failed. And not only that, I totally lost my cool. I left M in his bedroom to cry a bit and went to open the bedroom door. Locked. Because someone likes to bang doors open, and when certain doors have push button locks, those buttons tend to get pushed into the wall on a fairly regular basis. And though we usually remember to make sure the doors don’t stay locked, sometimes we don’t.

So I jiggled the door handle. A loud rattle startling my poor husband awake. I dropped an F-bomb and got my trusty screwdriver to open the door. I crashed into the room in enough of a tizzy to incite James to ask if I was okay. I was frustrated and curt. I moved like a blur into the shower tossing apologies back over my shoulder at him through clenched teeth. I was frustrated and upset that I would be going into work frustrated and upset. I was certain that this tiny little bit of a morning would color my whole day.

What I had meant to do if my nap efforts failed, which they sometimes do, was to sneak calmly into the bedroom and embrace my loving, hard working man, tell him sweetly that I did my best, and I hate to have to wake him, but ask him to please go tend to the baby and if he wanted to, climb back into bed after the deed was done. I meant to say it all so gently, with hugs and kisses and cuddles, even if M was still in the other room crying. I meant to wake him happily and lovingly. I failed at that, too.

But as we moved through the rest of our brief morning moments together, I saw how my husband understood. How he appreciated the effort I had made before I hit that breaking point, which I’m pretty sure was the locked bedroom door. How he offered to help get me ready for work, even though I didn’t need him to. He is the best. And I actually did leave for work with a happy feeling.

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