In this age of high divorce rates, people are looking for an out clause from their responsibilities as a spouse. Well, one needs to look no further than the last five words of their marriage vows: till death do us part. Wow, I have to admit that sounded better in my head than it reads on paper. Hopefully, I do not have any married psychopaths amongst my faithful readership.
But, if this is the case, it means I have to really examine my entire writing style. When potential publishers listen to a book pitch, I am guessing the deal breaker comes around the time they find out the 30 to life you mentioned as your target audience wasn’t an age range, but rather the average prison sentence of people who enjoy your blog.
I quite fancy my life and do not envision it ending it as an accomplice to a lunatic who went bonkers after his wife burnt his microwave meal so let me clarify. The loophole I speak of is only temporary. With proper medication, a little chicken noodle soup and a box of Kleenex, death will pass in a few short days.
Jenn and I both experienced “The Death” this past weekend and it knocked us completely out of commission. Being parents of two beautiful, yet highly active, girls and the having no family in town, this situation put us in quite a pickle. I need to re-write that last sentence. Even though the symptoms have passed, the thought of kosher pickles floating in a jar still makes me a little woozy.
Take Two. We found ourselves facing quite the dilemma in trying to figure out what to do with the girls. Ah, much better Tony. On a typical weekend, they only have three hours of “scheduled” bouncing off the wall time in between our trips to Target and Costco. Letting them have free reign of the house to feast off of whatever they can find in the pantry could lead to Department of Child Services type trouble.
I remember starting a discussion while sprawled out in bed as to who would be gracious enough to take care of the children while the other rested. One cannot be sure, but there might have been a suggestion of someone “manning up.” Yet, thanks to the stuffy haze how we concluded the conversation escaped me. When Maddie and Paige came storming in our room at 6:45 in the morning I relied on my man reasoning skills to deduct it must have been Jenn who came out as the lucky winner in being responsible for the girls. After all, she says I am a big baby when I am sick and no parent in their right mind would let a baby watch their babies.
I roll over and catch a couple extra moments of shuteye rest assured “The Death” is what they were talking about in the vows I took that said “till THE DEATH do us part.” Symptoms negate servanthood. Coughing always cancels out caring. Sniffles mean no sympathy unless of course it is the wife extending it to you. My responsibilities to put the needs of my wife before my own were off the table until the Robitussin kicked into gear. Judging by the reaction I received from Jenn after awaking from my slumber an hour later, it appears I was clearly mistaken about that loophole. Ouch. Looks like I am starting the month playing catch up.