Poor Daddy

DH does not know the bedtime routine that I’ve spent two years establishing, mostly because I’ve never incorporated him. Nobody does it better than me, right? Saturday night, he was home for dinner and the evening ‘winding down’ routine that followed. I finally had the girls bathed and in their pajamas, and they asked if they could spend the last few minutes cuddling and watching the football game with their Daddy. They pleaded their case by pointing out that they had not seen him all day.

Oh boy. Guilt can be such a motivating factor!

I put Rosie to bed, then joined the girls and my DH on the sofa. Before long, I was the only person actually watching Texas A&M lose to Clemson, since an all out Ticklefest had commenced at the other end of the sofa. I did gently remind the Big Boy about the impending bedtime for the girls, but soon the girls were giving as good as they were getting and Ticklefest took on Armageddon proportions. GRRR! 😡

Rather than repeat myself, I stormed into our bedroom to finish putting away laundry. Yes, I slammed the bedroom door, banged the drawers open and closed, angrily flung shoes into the closets, all while counting backwards silently from 100, million that is.

Back in the living room, my husband was shhhing the girls, telling them to relax and get ready for bed. Catie, the four-year-old, after listening to the muffled sounds of my hissy fit, looked up at my DH and said, “This is all your fault!”

DH got them into bed while I finished burning his clean laundry. Afterward, I sat silently next to him on the sofa, and finished watching the college football game. Texas A&M lost to Clemson, only because their Aggie Math didn’t compute. Last few minutes of the game, Aggies score a touch down, earning enough points to put them ahead by one. Then, choosing to foolishly kick for one measly point. So A&M is up by two. Then, with less than one and one-half minutes in the game, the Clemson Whatevers managed to kick a 45+ yard field goal. So Clemson won because the Aggies (or their coaches) couldn’t figure out their own math equations.

We consoled ourselves with Make-up Sex. Enough said.

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