It’s time for another of those posts wherein I complain about my extremely luxurious situation.
Bun Bun and I are currently hiding out in the basement. It’s not pretty, and there’s a dripping noise that probably means our hot water heater is about to explode, but it’s so coooooooool. You see, because Mr. Bunny works from home, I normally spend the day on the second floor of our house, while he spends the day in his first-floor office. But the second floor is unbearably hot today.*
Why don’t I just hang out on the first floor? Because if I did, I would most likely stab my husband in the face.
At first, I couldn’t quite figure out why I got so irritable when our paths crossed during the day. I’d be perfectly content doing whatever with Bun Bun (lately, being amazed at her ability to lift her head during tummy time.** I don’t think the parents of the organism that first crawled onto land could possibly have been prouder than we are…), and he’d pop his head in to see what we were up to, and I’d suddenly feel an annoyance that burned with the heat of a thousand suns. Even as I felt it, I knew it was silly, and it felt particularly silly when he’d pop his head in with an offer to make lunch, or to take her for a while. I mean, what kind of insane monster gets annoyed with someone for being helpful? But I sure did. And feeling silly didn’t change shit.
So I considered the fact that we’d never spent this much time together before, and figured maybe even the best of partners becomes a little suffocating after a while. But then I noticed that I was perfectly happy to spend time with him on the weekends, even eager for his company. So it’s something to do with him being “at work”.
I’m still not entirely sure what. Maybe I’m resenting him for having an existence outside the realm of Bun Bun? But it’s not as if I want to run off to the office for a bit–nothing could be less appealing. Or maybe I’m resenting him for sort of being half in, half out. You know, not really primary caregiver, but not really noticing the difference between my life and his life? Certainly I find myself getting prickly when he tells someone that laundering the cloth diapers is not such a big deal, because LIKE HE’D KNOW! Or commenting on what a quiet baby Bun Bun is, because LIKE HE’D KNOW! (Though, ahem, it’s not, and, ahem, she is, though not nearly as quiet as he thinks.)
Ultimately, it’s probably a combination of several things. One, I don’t want to spend every waking hour with my husband. Two, I want him to do his damn work and then be DONE. When he pops his head in, it creates the impression that he’s got nothing to do, and if he’s got nothing to do, why isn’t he on Bun Bun duty, or why aren’t we doing something super fun as a family? Three, my life revolves around child care, which still feels weird, his doesn’t, a fact that might activate some kind of primitive knee-jerk feminist reflex.
So. There’s definitely no way we could possibly exist on the same floor of the house.
I hope it cools off soon, as I’d like to return to my normal habitat.
*So hot that I pre-ordered the new-fangled swaddle strap. Because swaddling Bun Bun at night feels like animal cruelty, and not swaddling her is not an option.
**GAG. Still hate that name.