Love and War

It’s way too late to be blogging. But I’m feeling introspective... which is just my way of saying I’m feeling down.

I’m wearing Ashton’s camouflage Snuggie. Well, not wearing it completely, because it’s child sized. I don’t have my arms through the sleeves or anything... so it doesn’t really count as hopping on the Snuggie bandwagon, right? Although, I can’t say that I would really be adverse to owning a Snuggie. Especially the ones that come with a book light. Especially since Jeremy broke my old book light.

Speaking of Jeremy... well, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that I’m not the only person in the universe who argues with their spouse, right? Of course, right. I can’t really say Jeremy and I have been arguing so much as... bickering. I hate that word- bickering. For some reason it reminds of when I was young, and my dad would reach his breaking point when it came to us kids. He would stand up, sometimes toss his newspaper on the floor, and holler, “That is e-NOUGH!!! I have had it up to HERE (holding his hand up above his reddening face, indicating where exactly ”here“ was) with your... BICKERING!”, with a hard pronunciation of the B. He made the word “bicker” sound like a slap.

Jeremy and I have always had a bust your chops relationship. It’s one of the things I love about us. But sometimes, as with everything, we can take it too far, and joking gives way to hurt feelings. On both sides. Both of us want to have the last word. It becomes a battle of one-upmanship (I can’t believe one-upmanship is actually a word. It looks weird). And in the end, at the risk of sounding sage and cliched, nobody wins. Except maybe me. Sometimes.

There! You see what I mean? I can’t even blog without having the final word.

So my point is, and what I’m saying to myself, and maybe anyone else out there who may need some sage and cliched advice, is that:

1. Bickering is immature. If it calls to mind memories of being yelled at by your dad for arguing with your sibling over who was sitting where, chances are, it’s probably immature.
2. Marriage isn’t about getting in the last word. It’s definitely not about winning. And that is a very, very good thing. Because (as previously stated in the above sage and cliched advice) most of the time, nobody wins.
3. My husband drives me crazy. Lord knows he does. And Lord knows that I drive him crazy, at regular intervals, and there’s a 60/40 chance that I’m doing it on purpose. I can admit that, and often do. However, and this brings me to:
4. In spite of being driven crazy, and the necessity to count to 10 frequently (which I do not always avail myself of), I know that I would so, so much rather “bicker” with Jeremy than be with someone else. More cliches, I know, but there’s a reason cliches are cliche. If being married to him means that I have to endure jokes about padded bras, occasionally (okay, maybe more than occasionally) sub-par housekeeping, and worry wart tendencies, I am completely okay with that. Because that also means that I get to tell him how awful his hair looks, and how he manages to ruin even the simplest of jokes. And how his Scottish accent somehow manages to be a mix of Cockney, Forrest Gump, Bob Marley, and Apu from The Simpsons. Yeah, don’t ask me. I don’t know how he manages that one either.
5. Somehow, just acknowledging the fact that yes, we bicker, and yes, we are still okay afterwards, makes me feel not so down. It's nice to know that I can wake up in the morning to someone I love and am annoyed by. Bad hair, stupid jokes, and all.