The Ass-Saint.

Sometimes I think my husband is an ass.

Sometimes I think my husband is a saint.

In reality, he’s somewhere in the middle; an Ass-Saint, just like me. Sometimes I look at him and I wonder how I got so lucky. Other times I want nothing more than to dump a box of dry cereal on his head and scream “HERE’S YOUR DINNER, MOTHER F-ER!” Do you think I’m a bad person or a bad wife because I am willing to admit that out loud? If so, then maybe you’re not so much an Ass-Saint … maybe you’re a Saint-Saint. And if that is the case, you have no business reading my blog.

Our 9-year wedding anniversary is next week and we haven’t even discussed it. I remember a time when I planned things way in advance — I would have selected a gift and a card and a special outfit for the occasion by now.

That particular season is now a memory. This season is chaotic, leaving little time for me to file my fingernails or think coherently, let alone plan ahead. I miss planning ahead. It’s one of my strong points.

Right now we are two Ass-Saints working together to raise our three children so that that they will not turn out to be Ass-Asses. And no matter what my husband may say or do that rubs me the wrong way, when I see a scene like this one, all is immediately forgiven.