“我受够了。你带她。我一直在突然打嗝，我无法摆脱她的东西。自11起，我一直和她在一起，早上2点。我是。完毕！”
And with those belligerent words, my husband shoves our mewling two-week-old into my arms. And there is no love in that shove, trust me. He storms off to our bedroom, desperate for sleep, desperate to be anywhere but thenursery。And I know I should relish this moment and appreciate in my sleepy state–in spite of Husband’s frustration–just how beautiful our daughter looks in the glow of the nightlight, how ethereal her newborn skin is, how beautiful and foreign it smells, how soft her baby-bird-hair feels against my skin, how unbelievably lucky I am to hold her, to have a child, to have two children, to be snuggling with the kind of healthy, rosy-faced newborn that so many women crave. For a second, I think about a Walt Whitman poem I remembered reading in college: “Your very flesh shall be a great poem.”Eliana’s肉是一个伟大的坡m, and our children are a triumphant symphony, and I should appreciate this moment, it’s a blessing, I should say a prayer maybe, at least begrateful，并享受并品尝它，因为它在我知道之前会消失，但我更加有意识地意识到并对我的其他想法进行了解决：
I want to fucking kill him.
真的没有什么比在婚姻中带出浪漫和爱情的新生儿，就在那里吗？
虚构的战斗
As Eliana whines in my arms, twisting, turning, contorting left and right to get out some gas or, from the sound of it, perhaps an elephant that has shoved its way up her intestinal tract, I sit down in the crusty-old, second-newborn-in-the-family glider next to her crib and start to have an imaginary fight with my husband, which is what I like to do in the wee hours of the morning when the rest of the world sleeps, dreaming of lottery winnings, tax refunds, and college scholarships for tuba playing. I would feel guilty about our heated rhetorical wars, but I know that Husband has imaginary fights with me too, and given the expressions I see on his face as he has these one-sided debates that I am far too smart to inquire about, I feel rather fortunate that neither of us has yet taken the fancy can opener in the kitchen and jabbed it into the other’s jugular.
I prop my feet up on the ottoman and feel my face transform into a monstrous, deformed version of itself, not unlike Skeletor: the Postpartum Model. Venom blackens my brain as my thoughts churn out hateful, resentful things that are better left unsaid.
Oh, are you tired? Are you
pumping
你有人之后你的山雀
feeding
他们不断像寄生虫一样？我们的3岁儿童在你的腿上推跑，当你试图将新生儿进行通红，痛苦，杰西卡瀑布流动的jessica兔子胸部？你知道吗？我也很累！我累极了！只是吮吸它！我不是超级英雄 - 我自己不能这样做！
Like all of my one-sided battles, it’s the best of whines, and it’s the worst of whines. It is the best because I am right–eternally right. I am the Mommy, and that is my God-given privilege–to be right about everything for the rest of time. I am right about when to pick up the baby and when not to. I am right about when to give into big sisterLila’s3岁的需求和何时停止拍她。我是对的时候何时嘘婴儿，何时引起她的注意。对，右，右。不可能对一切。丈夫在我的右边没有机会，他知道它。
It is the worst of whines because though I do not want to admit it, I can sometimes be wrong. In fact, there are many times when I am really horrifically wrong. And these happen to be the times when my husband astounds me with his ability to make up the difference. I’m supposed to be right, but it’s his patience, not mine, in the face of a发脾气that allows the storm to blow over. He’s the one who can make me smile in an hour so dark I don’t even want to face myself. His words, not mine, can bolster me like scaffolding, propping up sagging parts of my ego that are ready to collapse. It’s Daddy who is in the right often, showing love and kindness to Lila in place of my own frustration and short temper. These are the times when he is so right, and I am so wrong. Even his willingness to generally suck it up and pretend I’m right all the time–even though I know he’s pretending–is right.
It’s sickening.
But this whine–this accusatory, resentful bitch of a whine–it’s the whine I know, and it’s the one that lures me into its lair in the inky-blue pre-dawn hours like some hateful siren smacking her lips at the chance to ruin what had once been a beautiful婚姻。
愤怒在晚上
With little oblivious Eliana snuggling in my arms, my anger with Husband grows even more pronounced as I imagine him nestled in our bed, resting peacefully. So what if I have loved him from the moment I met him on a teen tour of Israel? So what if he’s the one person I consider my absolute best friend in the whole world? So what if my heart used to ache once upon a time at the thought of not being able to spend every second with him?
传给我一个barf包。你知道吗？实际上使它成为一个巨大的吉隆坡垃圾袋。
所有这一切都在夜间破坏了。爱情，浪漫，共同的历史和相互尊重像腐烂的母乳一样，在凌晨2点，它的恶臭在Eliana房间的良好通风空气中成熟，扼杀了我呼吸的能力，就像一个过度的尿布Genie堵塞鼻孔。
Eliana turns to look at me, her bright blue eyes–they are my husband’s eyes, damn it– suddenly wide and hopeful. She is no longer twisting, which is a good sign. I glance at the clock: 2:18. Jesus, he couldn’t wait 18 minutes more?! Eliana seems fine now–a turn of events I triumphantly take credit for just because I can. Eat it, Daddy! She is calm and quiet. Peaceful even. Her physical angst–a manifestation of her solidarity with Mommy’s resentment of Daddy–is gone. Eliana is no longer a physical mirror of Mommy’s emotional and matrimonial agita, but a happy little baby, looking to play with someone at 2:19 in the morning.
Dear God, I do not want to be that someone.
尽管我谨此目光，但是我知道只会让她更多地吸引她，延长我们的夜间遭遇。我更喜欢我的夜间喂食，快速肮脏，临床和缺乏情感。虽然，Eliana没有白痴，她看到了她的入口：时间打开可爱的时候。她和我一起锁定了眼睛，给了我一个巨大的无牙的muppet-y微笑，让我的心脏融化。而且，我是一个胼conland厨房工人不再。我带着小拇指轻轻地向她微笑，轻轻刷她的柔软脸颊。生活在泡沫中必须有多好，幸福地忘记了妈妈现在要杀死爸爸。
一个最终的变化
当丈夫应该刚刚吮吸它时，我仍然醒着，在这里完成工作，我把eliana带到她的变化桌子，授予自己的奢侈品的奢侈品，因为我想，爸爸甚至伤心改变你？我瞥了一眼紫莲的喂养/大便/撒尿的近乎科学图表，我和我痴迷于滑翔机旁边的床头柜。它所说的只是“10分钟内吃了2盎司。把她烧了50分钟 - 没有burp。“大写字母和下划线是指责的，毫无疑问。昏昏欲睡的手写尖叫的子文字，“你吃了这么令人讨厌的东西吗？这是你的错。”
I un-swaddle Eliana and lift up her Victorian-looking nightgown to find her diaper. Eliana rests contentedly on the changing table, smiling up at me affably. Eliana is 100% Husband; these are his eyes, his good nature. I roll my eyes for my imaginary audience and then roll my eyes at Eliana. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I open her diaper to an unremarkable sight. Wet. But as I slip the diaper off her pink body, I hear a horrible, terrible sound–the sound of nursery terrorism. It goes a little something like this: SQUISH-SPLASH-SMACK.
Welcome to ShitStorm, U.S.A. Population: ME.
我不确定听到的是我在那一刻做了什么 - 这可能是一个“在房间里有一个带刀子的人锯掉了我的腿！”尖叫或它可能是一个高音的“yaaaaaa！”，就像据称在他们死之前的恐怖尖叫，但无论它是什么，都足以让我的丈夫送到托儿所。
“哦，我的上帝，你还可以！??！”
我抬头看着他，我的眼睛充满了我的心在那一刻所觉得：“这款可爱的宝宝射击如何屎，梳妆台，我的手，改变的桌子和她的睡衣这么快？”
那个孩子的肉体可能是一个伟大的诗，但她的狗屎恰好是一个选集。
But the beauty of the Shit Storm is this: with it, the Spousal Storm breaks, and the cloud clears, and for the first time all night, I’m able to see my husband, to love him again for rushing to my rescue even though just 20 minutes before I wanted to see him maimed.
突然,我们都laughing-God,感觉不错to finally laugh and to stop seething–even if my wrists just so happen to be dripping in mustard-seed poop. Eliana lies unbothered on the changing table, her eyes–even though they’re still cross-eyed–dancing with the kind of mischievous delight I recognize as her sister’s trademark.
我手上的狗屎但在我心中忏悔，我看着丈夫。“这是一个糟糕的风暴。”
He nods sympathetically and smiles. “So that’s what was bothering her!”
“Yeah.” Shit-covered, I smile too because now we are partners again, not enemies.
“慌张的。抱歉。”
“我也是。”
而且，它几乎是时候面对另一个morning。
Marriage with kids ain’t easy. For more proof, read Sarah Tuttle-Singer’s take on婴儿后的婚姻and theways you can take just one night to spend some time together。
