Friday, July 31, 2009


This morning started out like any other morning (this far along in my pregnancy, anyway). I wake to Buzzy who is wide eyed and bushy tailed blabbering all the words she knows: Mama, Dad, Dada, Bob, Momo, Izzy, Papa, Baba, Mo (more), No, Voom (Vacuum), etc and turn over with the usual slosh of my bladder. I call Myturo on my cell phone (even though he's just in the next room) and ask him to come in and lay with her while I pee. He comes in swaddled in his blanket because as skinny as he is, he gets cold even when its 100+ degrees outside. I guess I do have to give him credit. I leave the air conditioning on and he doesn't complain. (He also doesn't know how to turn it off, so that's a plus) In any case, I go to the bathroom, he lies down with Buzzy. Everything is hunky dory. I then take Buzzy into the dining room for breakfast and he remains in bed sleeping. Fine. No biggie. It won't hurt me once to lift her into her high chair. (I'm not supposed to lift her until after LN's birth, but hey, let the guy sleep right? He works hard)

So I feed her cereal and we watch a little TV and out of nowhere he bursts into the dining room and asks me where his t-shirts are. I say, I don't know, because I don't. He tells me they were laying on the chair in our bedroom and what did I do with them. I'm starting to get a bit irritated (pregnancy hormones raging, ya know) and tell him I don't know where they are. He marches into the laundry room and says, 'you better not have washed them, they were already clean.' To which I respond that I haven't washed anything in weeks. (My gramma has been doing it as I can't bend over the washing machine to get the wet clothes out with my big ol gut in the way) He sneers and yells at me that she indeed did wash them and now they are soaking wet. He then instructs me that I am to tell my gramma to leave his clean clothes alone. I respond with, I will do no such thing, as his t-shirts were strewn on the floor (not on the chair as he thought) and neither of us knew if they were clean or dirty.

Not to mention when I lived in Mexico his mother did about the same thing to me and when I asked him to tell her to leave my stuff alone, he in exactly as many words told me to shut my mouth and not say a word to her. "That she was only trying to help".
***End Tangent***

So from there comes this entire tirade about how lazy I am and how I don't do anything anymore. UH HELLO! 9+ months pregnant on limited activity. No shit, I'm not doing anything Sherlock! UGH! He tells me I'm good for nothing and what do I expect of him? Do I expect him to make his own food, wash his own clothes, help take care of Buzzy AND work? I say yes, yes I do. And he tells me I'm crazy. He scoops the money I am supposed to deposit to pay bills off the sink, waves it in my face and tells me not to think for one moment he is going to continue supporting a lazy good for nothing woman. I tell him, good, don't and don't come home tonight either, then. He tells me, 'as if there's anything to come home to anyway.' I tell him he complains a lot and that there are American men out there (I know a small handful) who do all of that stuff and more for their wives when they're pregnant and don't complain half as much. He tells me I'm not married to an American to which I respond that he isn't married to a Mexican and I am not a work horse, and I refuse to become one. And that is where it got ugly.

He then turns to my 1 year old daughter, completely ignoring me, and says
"You're mom is a ______ and a _______ and a lazy ______ and a ______, isn't she?"

Yes, all those blanks are Spanish profanity that I refuse to write in my blog. Of course Buzzy has no idea what he's saying, but I do and with that I grab my keys, scoop Buzzy off the floor and leave. She doesn't need to be around that. She doesn't need to hear that. And he should be an adult and know that it is severely inappropriate to say those things in front of a baby/child, let alone directly to them.

So now he is at work. I am glad he is gone. He works double shifts today, tomorrow and Sunday. I am tempted to tell him not to come to the hospital on Monday for LN's birth, but maybe its just the hormones and they will pass. We'll see. He always chooses life's most important events to turn into a raving lunatic. Our babies' births, Christmas, birthdays. UGH! That's what I get for marrying a Mexican who of all things is a Mama's boy and the baby of 13. Yep, that's what I get.


  1. Sounds like a typical man. You should have seen my husband's "mood" when I kept going into false labor with my last one. Not as sympathetic as I would have liked. That's why women handle the tough things in life like pregnancy, childbirth, etc., etc., etc. LOL

  2. ((((HUGS)))) MEN!


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