My daughter was just a few weeks old when it first occurred to me that I might hate my husband. Our house was a wreck: he kept tossing clothes onto the floor inches from the hamper, forgetting to close every damn drawer and cabinet in the kitchen, and leaving dirty plates on the coffee table. We argued constantly about the baby, with him second-guessing the organization of a nursery I had painstakingly catalogued and me sobbing that he had no idea how hard it was to exclusively breastfeed. And then one afternoon, as we drove past his once-favorite watering hole, my husband dared ask when I thought our life was going to “go back to normal.”
I cried. I yelled. And for the first time ever in our relationship, I looked at my husband and thought, it might be better if you weren’t around.
In my defense, I was TIRED…
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