The One In Which My Patience Is Stretched Very Thin

I am not the world's most patient person, but I work on it.

Eight weeks of solo parenting, working and running the household has helped my tolerance levels immensely.

Today that carefully cultivated patience is stretched so very very thin, like gossamer strands of a silken web. 

Delicate.

Fragile.

Breakable.

I don't want to be a husband basher. But right now I could very easily become a husband stabber.

One look, one mutter, one flick of his iPhone while I'm talking to him and his life insurance better be worth something.

He's been home since Sunday afternoon and by Monday morning I was getting tetchy.

By yesterday I was having hot sweats and grinding my teeth.

By this afternoon I had developed a tick in my eye.

I have a tension headache from the effort of not screaming like a banshee and hurling his shit halfway down the street.

Why is it so fucking hard to get off his arse and HELP ME with something?

I'm sorry, but as far as I am aware, I am a partner, not the hired help.

I have been asking very clearly for help since Monday morning. I have a lot to get done by Christmas.

If he wasn't here I would have done all of it myself, or as much as I could possibly manage. 

And I wouldn't be crying my eyes out three sleeps before Christmas.

I have not sat down for one whole minute since I opened my eyes. Every day this week.

All WonderMan has done is sit down. All week.

And if my patience cracks just the tiniest bit he gets huffy. Like scorned woman huffy. As if I'm the devil incarnate when I'm pleading for him to do something as simple as change the toilet roll.

Because apparently life is very hard living on your own and having ZERO responsibility for anything or anyone. It's exhausting to get out of bed and move to the couch. 

It's a major drag having a partner who asks you to, like, do stuff.

And it's just too hard to drag your eyes away from your pathetic, moronic "friends" on Facebook to listen to one word your "wife" has to say.

Man, how could I possibly understand the daily struggle of deciding whether to watch the M*A*SH* reruns or battle across the loungeroom to pick up the remote.

I must be a total bitch.