Saturday morning, I was pretty sure the pod people had taken my husband, and left someone named Jeeves in his place.
“I’m going to make you breakfast. Just sit down, watch whatever you want on TV, and I’m going to cook and clean up a bit.” And cook and clean up he did, amidst my weak protesting. (Shut up. Don't judge me. There was a Hell’s Kitchen rerun on.)
“Bring me the laundry. I want to get it all done.” Although it was pretty much all his laundry, I was still a little woozy over the badass, cleaning mamma-jamma that had replaced my other (less sanitizing obsessed) half. I obliged, throwing everything but the kitchen sink down the laundry chute.
As the day progressed, we watched a few movies, held hands, and played with the baby. We cooked dinner together, and held each other as we went to sleep. All in all, it was a pretty fabulous day. The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully, and I was just generally glad to be married to him and have my life.
Cut to: Tuesday morning after a long weekend. There was a light rain, the breeze flapped through the curtains, and light jazz flowed through the speakers. It seemed as if it was going to be a very calm, nice, once in a while kind of morning. As I went downstairs to get the laundry from the dryer, I found that there was nothing in there. Odd, huh?
Not so odd. There was nothing in the dryer because the first of the seven loads never made it out of the washer. The formerly clean clothes were rancid. Hell, I’m surprised they didn’t transfer themselves into the dryer. Sigh.
Coming back up to the kitchen, I found a smelly pile of exercise clothes next to the highchair. Sighing, I took them to the hamper. Entering the bathroom, I found the small (but undeniable) piles of hair he had cut the night before. They were on the sink, on the soap dispenser, on the floor, and ON MY TOOTHBRUSH. Resigned, I cleaned up the bathroom. As the morning droned on, I banged my head against the proverbial wall, trying to figure out why I’d been so blissful and head over heels for this man over the weekend. It crept in the corner of my mind, but remained blocked by the smell of bleach and my muttering voice emptily threatening serious marital issues.
I woke this morning and made my coffee. I blearily read the text message on my phone. It said simply “Wanna marry me again? Love you”.
I guess sometimes the scales balance themselves out strangely.