Read Online Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves by Robin O'Bryant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robin O'Bryant
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the DVD still running.
“Zeb, is Emma asleep?” I’ll whisper to him.
“How am I supposed to know?” He’ll say, “I’m driving.”
“ZEB, look in the rear view mirror, OR pretend you are checking your blind spot and GLANCE at her to see if she is asleep.”
“That’s really not safe, Robin.”
Is he serious? Does he realize that I drive with them in the car every day, and can keep one hand on the wheel, my eyes on the road and still reach their baby dolls in the back seat when they drop them?
“LOOK AT HER!” I’ll hiss at him.
“Yeah, she’s asleep.”
I turn the DVD player off and slam it shut.
When we made the move from Savannah, Georgia to Mt Pleasant, South Carolina in November 2007, he was driving his car and pulling a trailer with his motorcycle. Because my car has the DVD player, I had eighteen-month-old Emma and three-year-old Aubrey in the car with me. We got into Charleston around dark and as we were crossing the Ravenel Bridge, my cell phone rang. It was Zeb.
“Did you see that battleship?!” He began to describe the USS Yorktown in vivid detail.
“What battleship?” I asked him.
“The one we are driving over.”
Smoke began to pour out of my ears and my blood began to boil, I could feel my chest tightening as my blood pressure rose. “I’m SORRY! You mean the one that is 500 feet BELOW us, and a quarter of a mile BEHIND us? Are you for real? You are pulling a trailer, talking on your cell phone and driving across a six-lane bridge you’ve never driven on before, IN THE DARK, and you aren’t capable of looking in the back seat to see if your child is sleeping?” I hung up the phone.
The next time we were in the car headed to Alabama and things got quiet I asked “Is Emma sleeping?”
“I don’t know,” he said “I’m driving.”
I was quick to reply, “Just pretend she’s a battleship.”
Regardless of the idiotic things your husband does to or in front of your kids, you married him, so you have to deal with it and you’d better be careful how you deal with it. Zeb called one Sunday to tell me he was on his way home from work. I hung up the phone and turned to the girls, “Daddy’s on his way home!” I knew they would be excited to see him because he had worked all weekend. A few minutes passed and Aubrey said angrily, “Why you call my Daddy a jerk, Momma?”
“Which time?” I thought to myself, as I scrambled to try to figure out what she was referring to. It finally hit me and I exclaimed,
“I didn’t call Daddy a JERK. I said, he’s on his way home from WORK!”
Aubrey looked at me with scorn and said, “I don’t fink so!”
I have to admit that I married the perfect man, though. He is a man’s man but ended up with three daughters. He can fix anything, which is nice because I break just about everything. In exchange for staying up late with whichever child isn’t cooperating, he lets me sleep late every Saturday and Sunday, and has never complained about it. (He is mine and you can’t have him and yes, I would take my earrings off and fight for him.) He washes dishes or the kids every night after dinner. And he lets me pick which of those chores I’d rather do, which means that most nights I end up cleaning the kitchen and sipping on some Mommy Juice (read: whatever brand of wine was on sale at Wal-Mart this particular week), while he bathes the girls, brushes teeth, brushes “knobs” out of hair, and reads the girls a story before bed. He works up to fourteen hours a day some days, and comes home exhausted but willing to do anything I ask of him. Not only can he change my oil and build an exact replica of the Pottery Barn bookcase I’ve been eyeing, but he can also give a mean pedicure. He (thanks to extensive training from his mother and three sisters) has learned that when a girl cries, it’s not always for a reason and the appropriate response is
“Zeb, is Emma asleep?” I’ll whisper to him.
“How am I supposed to know?” He’ll say, “I’m driving.”
“ZEB, look in the rear view mirror, OR pretend you are checking your blind spot and GLANCE at her to see if she is asleep.”
“That’s really not safe, Robin.”
Is he serious? Does he realize that I drive with them in the car every day, and can keep one hand on the wheel, my eyes on the road and still reach their baby dolls in the back seat when they drop them?
“LOOK AT HER!” I’ll hiss at him.
“Yeah, she’s asleep.”
I turn the DVD player off and slam it shut.
When we made the move from Savannah, Georgia to Mt Pleasant, South Carolina in November 2007, he was driving his car and pulling a trailer with his motorcycle. Because my car has the DVD player, I had eighteen-month-old Emma and three-year-old Aubrey in the car with me. We got into Charleston around dark and as we were crossing the Ravenel Bridge, my cell phone rang. It was Zeb.
“Did you see that battleship?!” He began to describe the USS Yorktown in vivid detail.
“What battleship?” I asked him.
“The one we are driving over.”
Smoke began to pour out of my ears and my blood began to boil, I could feel my chest tightening as my blood pressure rose. “I’m SORRY! You mean the one that is 500 feet BELOW us, and a quarter of a mile BEHIND us? Are you for real? You are pulling a trailer, talking on your cell phone and driving across a six-lane bridge you’ve never driven on before, IN THE DARK, and you aren’t capable of looking in the back seat to see if your child is sleeping?” I hung up the phone.
The next time we were in the car headed to Alabama and things got quiet I asked “Is Emma sleeping?”
“I don’t know,” he said “I’m driving.”
I was quick to reply, “Just pretend she’s a battleship.”
Regardless of the idiotic things your husband does to or in front of your kids, you married him, so you have to deal with it and you’d better be careful how you deal with it. Zeb called one Sunday to tell me he was on his way home from work. I hung up the phone and turned to the girls, “Daddy’s on his way home!” I knew they would be excited to see him because he had worked all weekend. A few minutes passed and Aubrey said angrily, “Why you call my Daddy a jerk, Momma?”
“Which time?” I thought to myself, as I scrambled to try to figure out what she was referring to. It finally hit me and I exclaimed,
“I didn’t call Daddy a JERK. I said, he’s on his way home from WORK!”
Aubrey looked at me with scorn and said, “I don’t fink so!”
I have to admit that I married the perfect man, though. He is a man’s man but ended up with three daughters. He can fix anything, which is nice because I break just about everything. In exchange for staying up late with whichever child isn’t cooperating, he lets me sleep late every Saturday and Sunday, and has never complained about it. (He is mine and you can’t have him and yes, I would take my earrings off and fight for him.) He washes dishes or the kids every night after dinner. And he lets me pick which of those chores I’d rather do, which means that most nights I end up cleaning the kitchen and sipping on some Mommy Juice (read: whatever brand of wine was on sale at Wal-Mart this particular week), while he bathes the girls, brushes teeth, brushes “knobs” out of hair, and reads the girls a story before bed. He works up to fourteen hours a day some days, and comes home exhausted but willing to do anything I ask of him. Not only can he change my oil and build an exact replica of the Pottery Barn bookcase I’ve been eyeing, but he can also give a mean pedicure. He (thanks to extensive training from his mother and three sisters) has learned that when a girl cries, it’s not always for a reason and the appropriate response is
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