Dr. Magic is back in the house! His wife finally had her baby (a 4.5 hour homebirth - she's my hero) so he's back to adjusting...well, backs. The pain is once again tolerable, and I'm seriously considering the idea that Dr. Magic may be the Devil. In which case I'll be ready to sign over my soul any day now.
I also finally let my Monkey Man know that despite the apparent shiny-happy gleam I've been managing to convey, that I am really only keeping up the appearance of keeping my shit together.
This seems like it should be such a no-brainer - you start falling off the deep end, you tell your devoted and loving spouse that you need help. Yeah, right. Then how could I warm my aching soul with my burning rage? And how could I justify being all bitchy and snide and feeling superior because I'm obviously the only person making real sacrifices for this family? And what kind of a husband is he if he can't read my mind already? Jeez.
I think maybe I might need to read this book. Not that I actually "need" help, but you know I am always trying to expand my knowledge base. Learning is good.
Amazing what a good cry in the arms of a loved one and a couple of great chiropractic adjustments can do for your mood. Doesn't hurt that it's Friday (I can sleep in tomorrow - you know, at least after I get up to pee) or that I had a cleaning lady come today (so we're no longer slogging through drifts of animal hair to get from room to room).