My marriage has been shaky, practically teetering on the edge of not making it, since the very beginning. We were engaged after only dating for six months, and I found out we were pregnant before we were married. I was horribly sick while pregnant and was forced to quit my job. Arguments over money seemed to happen constantly, and we were unable to enjoy anything vaguely reminiscent of being “newlyweds”. Three years have passed and we still argue constantly, but know better than to do so in front of Danny. 

    Even though I try not to think about it too much, my marriage tends to bring out the worst in me. I’ve gotten angrier than I ever thought possible, heard things come out of my mouth that don’t even sound like something I would say, and it makes me feel like shit. My buttons are constantly punched (we passed pushed about two years ago), and it becomes difficult to continue to hold my tongue, especially when Danny is involved. 

     I’ve already mentioned that we sleep with our son. There seem to be a trillion reasons for us doing so, but there’s one main reason it’s still happening. When we moved into our three bedroom condo, my husband immediately started painting “Danny’s room”.  He was still in a crib then, and I felt more comfortable having that in our bedroom. A few months after we moved in, a friend of my husband’s moved up from Tampa. My husband explained that he would only be there for a couple months, so he moved into “Danny’s room” since it had a closet (unlike the third bedroom we now use for storage). I didn’t think it was that big of deal because Danny was still too little for his own big boy room, and I thought George’s friend would only be with us for a little while.

    I have no concept of time, but I believe that was over six months ago. Probably more. I’ve grown to absolutely adore George’s friend, who has become like family to me and an uncle to Danny. He helps around the house, is polite, cooks (!!!), and is generally more pleasant to be around than my own husband.  Needless to say, I can’t see him ever leaving, and wouldn’t want him to. 

     Rewind to two months ago. Danny and I were sleeping, and George was in the living room watching television. A loud thump woke me up, and I jumped out of bed and immediately heard Danny screaming.  He’d fallen off the bed. It’s not a short fall either, as we have a huge king bed that’s at least Danny’s height off the floor.  He was fine, but it scared the shit out of me. In tears, I told George that Danny definitely needed his own bed, that the bed railing we’d put up and barricade of pillows wasn’t cutting it anymore. He said he’d talk to our roommate about moving into the “storage” bedroom.
 
    Cut to last night.

    I have a cold, so I’d taken some Nyquil and passed out.  I vaguely remember Danny being in the bed with me, but nothing more.  Whenever George falls asleep with Danny (rarely) I tiptoe in every thirty minutes or so to make sure Danny’s still breathing (I STILL do this, and have since he was a day old) and that the barricade of pillows is still in place. George would think I’m crazy if he knew this, especially since he consistently comments on how “paranoid” I am and rolls his eyes if I react “too dramatically” whenever Danny falls or has an accident. I am a parent, but certainly not a dramatic one. I’ve taught Danny from the beginning that if you have a little accident (or a little fall) you can laugh at yourself and get right back up.  I guess in my husband’s eyes there is a fine line between being “dramatic” and normal. 

    But back to last night…

    I’m knocked out, and I hear the dreaded thump.  Even in my Nyquil induced haze, I get that panicky someone’s-punched-me-in-the-stomach/holy-shit-something-is-wrong-with-my-kid feeling. Danny’s fallen again. Even though he’s yelling loud enough to wake someone up in the next county, he’s fine. George comes rushing in and asks me what happened. He’d been playing video games in the other room (surprise, surprise) and heard Danny fall.

    Immediately, he says, “What is wrong with you?” Since I’m drugged up, I shake my head and ask him what he means.  “This is the SECOND time he’s fallen when in bed with you.”

What.

 The.

Fuck.

    George was upset, obviously looking for someone or something to blame, and made me the target. Never mind the countless times I’ve come home from work to find Danny with a lump on his head, and George with some ridiculous explanation like, “He jumped and hit his head on the table,” and me left thinking why the fuck weren’t you watching him but holding my tongue. Our kid was/is fine, and that’s what matters.

    After George left the room, I started to wake up slowly and step of out the Nyquil haze. I got angrier and angrier and angrier.  Danny fell back asleep within minutes, but I laid in bed stewing. Rather than walking out of the bedroom and confronting George in front of our roommate (and God forbid walk in front of the television and interrupt a game in process), I calmly sent him a text message. It was after eleven, so I questioned him about not coming in earlier to see if the baby had proper pillow “blockage”. I explained that I didn’t even remember the baby crawling in bed with me since I was literally sick and tired. I also reminded him that this never would have happened, had he had the balls to say something to our roommate about moving rooms so Danny could have his own bed that would undoubtedly be much closer to the floor. I also thanked (yes,thanked) him for reminding me what he’s really like. 

    Making me feel like a shitty mother says more about my husband than it does me. Blaming me for an accident was cruel, unnecessary, and says a lot about the lack of solidarity in our marriage.  It’s become a game of who’s right, who’s the better parent, and who can get the last word in. 

And it’s not working.

I thanked my husband for reminding me what our life shouldn’t be like, but is. I can only hold my tongue---and my marriage together---for so long. 

(before I take my foot out of my mouth and shove it in his ass.)