My In-Laws Aren’t Actually As Awful As My Husband Would Have You Believe: This Is Me, Throwing My Husband Under The Bus

Unwashed- I just wanted you to know my feelings on it. It’s a bad idea.

Tex- I understand your feelings, but isn’t this the stuff that your best stories are made of? Something awful happens to you and then you write about it. Like your shingles post, that was amazing. It’s exactly like that.

Unwashed – I’m sorry, did you just compare attending your family’s Christmas with a form of herpes?

World, I needed you to know that this happened. It was actually better than during our last date night when I was complaining that I was fatter than my last pregnancy and Tex quipped “But yet the baby is only measuring in the 33rd percentile”.

As a rule, with the exception of observations about the size of our fetus, my husband is nice. Like really nice. The kind of nice that when people see us together, they’re like, “Ohhhh, she must be keeping him captive.” What this means, is that no matter how kind I am, I am always the mean one in the relationship, who says terrible things. But this once, I wasn’t.

I was however the one arguing that driving eight hours round trip in one day to attend a Christmas lunch at his uncle’s house, with a three year old perpetual motion machine and a pregnant lady who does vomit fountain impressions in moving vehicles, was not the best idea. I will totally cop to that one. But I was not the person who compared the experience of visiting his family to excruciating nerve pain and a rash so unsightly and bumpy that it would make a person contemplate living in a darkened cave until the spots resolve.

Those tire tracks on my husband’s back? They’re my handiwork. If this doesn’t channel the spirit of the holidays, I don’t know what does.  Merry Christmas everyone, I hope your families are also like a debilitating flare up of Herpes zoster.

 

Also for all of you worrying about the well-being of my smaller than average baby; first off, thank you, but secondly, keep in mind that I’m approximately the size of a twelve year old. And not even a tall sixth grader. Tex and I would have been far more concerned if the baby was measuring in the 90th percentile. Then we would have been questioning whether it was actually our baby.

This post is proof that I am actually the mean one. Tex would never rat me out for comparing my family to an outbreak of blistering sores.

Also, in the end, Tex went to the Christmas get together with our son alone because a day before the shindig, I managed to badly strain a muscle which made sitting, standing or doing anything for long periods of time super painful.

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Travesty Tuesdays- An Apology and a Plea

In honour of Candy*’s visit, this Travesty Tuesday post is a postcard that I wrote to Candy’s mother. Last June Candy came to visit for a couple of days. In this correspondence I was petitioning that she be allowed to visit again this past Christmas. Ultimately my December campaign was unsuccessful, something about New York being more exciting than making cider with your cousin.

Dear Aunty Camelia**,                                                                                                        Dec’12

I’m very sorry I told Candy where babies come from. Please let her visit me over Christmas, I promise not to do it again.

In my defense, she thought you had to pluck the arm hairs off of adorable children you liked and then plant the hairs in the ground for a fetus to develop like an oddly shaped potato. I thought my explanation might get her into less trouble than this.

– The Great Unwashed

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who don’t actually believe that children grow in the ground like carrots.

** Names of adults who may not appreciate their children being exploited for the purposes of my blog have been changed in the hopes that maybe they won’t recognize themselves and force me to eat puffed rice in lieu of popcorn for the rest of my life. That bowl of round, puffy rice remains the weirdest movie snack that I’ve ever consumed. Although seeing as Aunty Camelia sampled my beet cookies, we may be even in the “Forcing Strange Foods Upon Distant Relatives Game”.