WHEN: Last night, about 8:30
WHERE: Our bed.
WHY: Exactly! WHY OH WHY, can’t I even enjoy a fucking sandwich in peace?
Little Mac was propped up between us on a pillow. I had just read him a couple of stories and I decided it was time for my fat ass to have a snack.
I basically forgot to eat anything before dinner yesterday so I was particularly ravenous. I built myself a glorious cheese sandwich on a whole wheat deli flat with mustard, pickles, onion, and lettuce. Regrettably, we didn’t have any fresh tomatoes. . .
I digress. . .
I took the sandwich to the bed. I got all settled in: latest Real Simple magazine on my lap, kid by my side, glorious sandwich in my fist, poised to meet mouth. Mac starts voicing displeasure. I jostle him half-heartedly, pickle juice running down my wrist.
Chris lies there like a slug. He’s not sleeping. What’s his damned problem? Can’t he see I could use a hand for five minutes?
Three aggressive bites later, Mac loses all patience. I shoot Chris a death glance. He promptly responds and picks the little guy up. Mac is now sitting on Chris’s chest. They are facing one another. Yeah, it’s pretty freaking adorable. . .so sweet. . .so freaking short-lived. . .
“Hummmmm, he seems to be passing gas on me,” notes Chris in dismay.
If you can’t keep that kid amused for another 5 bites, a little flatulence is going to be the least of your concerns, husband.
I remain silent. Chewing rapidly. Furiously flipping past the advertisement pages in the magazine attempting to get to something interesting before Chris tosses the kid back to me like some kinda’ hot potato.
“Are you okay little guy?” queries Chris. My head snaps their direction.
“What’s wrong?” I ask mouth full of provolone.
“He just looked really red for a few moments. I was worried he didn’t like the way I was holding him.”
This kid clearly just took a dump.
I nod my head, chomping chomping chomping. I barely taste anything. I might as well be eating cardboard at this point.
Surely Chris is going to figure this out, right? He has a gawddamned minor in Biology forcrissakes!
Two bites later Mac is engaged in a full-blown fit. He’s red, he’s crying. He’s clearly not pleased. Husband proceeds to play “airplane” with him. (Effectively smearing the offending diaper contents up the child’s back.)
I barely chew the final bite. I seethe. I seriously can’t even enjoy a damned sandwich. I lick pickle juice off my fingers and aggressively snatch the child, mid-air, from seemingly oblivious Husband.
After I cleaned up Mac and we returned to the bed, I stared at the plate. Only my regret and some crumbs remained. And although I didn’t want to believe it, I couldn’t help but wonder. . .
Was Chris honestly, really that clueless? Or was he just avoiding changing a diaper?