I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me.

When I dated Sean, I did what every single adult does during the dating process: tally up the seemingly minute or even "cute" idiosyncrosies/habits and estimate the degree they might annoy me if exacerbated exponentially.

Some things, like checking other women out, especially in my presence, became a deal breaker. Other habits, however, like a personal hygiene ritual, offended me less and couldn't seemingly get worse because I could simply close the door behind them. Little did I know I needed to acclimate instead of sensitize to behaviors that didn't easily adjust to accomodate cohabitation.

Admittedly, I didn't want to bring up anything that annoyed me, big or small, too soon after we wed so as not to make him regret his decision to marry me. Maybe I should've understood the "for better or worse" a little better instead.

It also didn't help matters that I delivered Pumpkin a measely 6 months after marrying. I struggled in the throes of ushering Sean through the channel of single bachelorhood into married life with a child in tow. I quickly realized having a child makes every transition more demanding and time critical. For instance, there I sat, desperate and dire in the bathroom, with no toilet paper on the roll and none within arm's reach. Not a big deal per se, but it becomes a bigger deal when I'm sitting there without TP, five days out from delivering a child and simultaneously leaking thru the nursing pads. Tact during that two week post-partum window also goes down the drain with the bathwater, which didn't help my cause.

Bless his heart, he tried, however. Sean helped me with everything I needed whenever I needed it as my wing-man. Around those early days with Pumpkin, I made a mental note to help Sean out in a big way too by taking over nearly everything household related because he worked full time. Hopefully by doing practically everything, I wouldn't become a nag by reminding him to follow thru with things a thousand times. Unfortunately, a fundamental flaw ensued: I couldn't possibly do everything on my own even if I tried, but try my darndest, I did. I kept trying right up until I finally couldn't ignore how overwhelmed I felt because of sleep deprivation. My non-commercial employment started the second I woke up and didn't end at 5pm when I left an office. Sometimes it lasted all night long which ran right into the next day and the next day and the next.

I decided my next move required transferring things from my to-do list to his list of responsibilities.

Leaving things in Sean's care a.k.a. "their own devices" turned into a crapshoot sometimes. I had to later trade some chores for others he could manage better, while certain critical responsibilities, like making sure the utility bills got paid, I added completely back to my "to-do" list altogether after one fateful day Pumpkin and I had no running water for a few hours. Thankfully the lights never blacked out and the burners have always turned when needed -only for the grace of God (and our debit card.)

I remember asking for help around the house one weekend, and Sean suggested that I should be taking care of things on my own while he watched Pumpkin because he didn't get to see her very often since he worked during the week. But...what about the household stuff that needs to get done during the week when he's not there and I have to forfeit play time with her in order to fold laundry and clean the kitchen and vacuum? Those things can't all wait until the weekend to get done. Don't we all have to make sacrifices?

Eventually, I went on strike. We separated...bathrooms. Not long after, daylight began to glimmer -along with my porcelain toilet bowl! I additionally decided he could fold his own clothes since mine, the baby's, all the bedding, towels and other linens already used enough of my alleged free time. I also resolved I could loosen the reigns for a "Mommy's Big Night Out" once a month. I needed to get out and stretch my wings a little and one Saturday every 30 days couldn't cause too much trouble, right?

Famous last words.

The house was trashed when I came home, remnants of dinner still on the table, floor and a couple of walls. It looked like hurricane Katrina picked up my child's entire inventory of toys and displaced them throughout the house, even in the sink. I found Sean asleep in the nursery rocking chair (all by his lonesome) while Pumpkin played with a poopy diaper in her crib. After this scenario, I could only come to one conclusion: me + leave the premesis = never again, ever.

It didn't take much longer, however, for me to finally resign myself to my mother's advice: moms are moms for a reason. Mommies also need breaks. The very next time "Mommy's Big Night Out" rolled around, I just crossed my fingers and prayed Pumpkin would poop before my time to leave.