A New Husband To Shake The Fist At…

When I started this site, I envisioned a place where women could flock to unload their grievances as they apply to their mates.

But no one really did.

For awhile I felt really badly about that, like I was the only person married to a man who made her insane. Then my readership started to grow, and I received lots of encouraging emails that I wasn’t the only one who wanted to flog her husband with the shitty birthday gift received. However, the open forum portion of the site never took off.  For whatever reason, people liked hearing my stories alone, requiring a lot more time and energy than I ever imagined investing in this site. Fortunately, G really buckled down and did his part, providing ceaseless episodes of forehead-slamming fodder.

But then a friend through the blogosphere sent me the piece you’ll read below. My spirits soared because – finally – someone was giving me their own marital sob story. And this one is good. Well, it’s bad. But it’s good to talk about. And so your moderator today goes by the moniker Lady Estrogen and authors the site Adventures in Estrogen .  She’s tirelessly creative, has a blog that will make any site owner want to redesign their own immediately, and she even has merchandise. Seriously, there may be Lady Estrogen franchises soon. But I promise you that there will not be any cloth diaper covers or stroller bags sold there. This lady has twins, but she’s got edge.

And she’s even Canadian. Whatever I mean by that. I’m really not sure.


Thank You For Noticing (By Lady Estrogen)

I’ll be the first to admit that having a baby can be overwhelming, especially the first month. When you have multiples, multiply that feeling as well. It’s like a thick haze of insanity that covers you like a blanket, but you cannot curl up underneath it and shut out the world because there are tiny, helpless infants that are relying on you for their survival. You cannot lose your grip – or at least one of you must keep on truckin’. That’s me – Momma Trucker.

In my case, it was my husband that curled up under that blanket and decided to set up camp for the better part of 8 months.

My husband – not me –  had Postpartum Depression.

I was too preoccupied to deal with it. Was I annoyed? Sure. I was fucking furious, but I was also too exhausted to do anything about it, physically and mentally. All my energy was focused toward the twins. After the first 3 months, he could have moved to another planet and I wouldn’t have even noticed… well, as long as the pay checks kept coming in.

And sex? What’s that? What is 8 months of PPD plus the 4 months before the twins were born equal to? 1 year? Plus or minus a couple weeks. Umm, yeah. No comment.

Like my mother, I too function like a volcano. It could be months or years before I blow, but when I do – watch the fuck out! It was at about 8 months that I blew – cataclysmically. There were tears, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. I told him either he got professional help or he was to move out.

He got help.

It’s been another year now – things are a lot better, but still far from ideal.

The other day, he was watching the kids bathe while I was getting their pajamas ready. He yelled for me; I could sense the panic in his voice. “Look at the rash on his leg! Did you see it? What is that?!”

Our one son has a heat-induced strawberry patch on his upper thigh. It comes out in the bath.

Every bath since they were born – 27 months ago.

Thank you for noticing.

(Thank you, Lady Estrogen for sending this my way!  Anyone encounter PPD in their husband?)