Whining, Wine-ing & Winning

There are a few things Jeff and I fundamentally disagree on. He thinks lotion is optional. He thinks ChapStick is unnecessary. And he thinks eye drops are something you use when there is a medical emergency happening inside your eyeball. I use all three regularly because I enjoy having skin that doesn’t feel like an alligator purse, lips that don’t split open when I smile, and eyeballs that aren’t raw-dogging the atmosphere. Every time I grab one of them, he has something to say.

“More lotion?” Yes, Jeff. More lotion. My skin absorbed the first application. That’s generally how lotion fucking works. Then there’s ChapStick. I have one in my purse. One by my bed. One in the kitchen. Probably three that have disappeared into whatever alternate universe also has all of our missing socks and Tupperware lids. This man owns zero. ZERO. He just walks around trusting his lips to regulate themselves like some kind of psychopath. The eye drops really get him. He cannot understand why a person would voluntarily put drops in their eyes…because they’re DRY, Jeff. Because I’m 44 years old and apparently my body has decided producing its own moisture is no longer included in the basic package.

Now I have created a tiny version of myself. Bee has decided that if Mom needs lotion, Bee needs “yotion.” If Mom needs ChapStick, Bee needs “dapdick.” All. The. Fucking. Time. And I will never correct dapdick because there are some gifts motherhood gives you that you don’t question.

Jeff already acts like living with two girls is the hardest thing a man has ever endured. Sir…She’s not even THREE. You think twoberty is tough? We haven’t even hit threenager yet. Eventually that sweet little girl asking for her dapdick is going to become an ACTUAL teenage girl, (wait for it with tampons and makeup and shampoos and all the shit) and you get to do all of this while your wife finishes perimenopause and heads straight into menopause. I don’t know what you did in a past life, babe, but you’re paying for it now.

Before everyone comes for him, the man does cook and he does the dishes. So he’s not a total loss. I’ll keep him. He may not change lightbulbs. He’s far too delicate for a truck. He sure as shit isn’t changing his own oil. He cooks, he cleans up afterward, and he’s surrounded by two girls who are going to spend the foreseeable future moisturizing, applying dapdick, crying over things he doesn’t understand, and reminding him that whatever phase he thinks is difficult right now is probably just the fucking warm-up.

You’re welcome, babe. We love you.