That was the venom that spewed out of my mouth last night as my husband sheepishly admitted that he wanted to work instead of spend my next Friday off with me - this is a recurring theme. O yeah, it happens to be my birthday. He tried to make it better by first showing me the toilets in the garage, which are my birthday present, and then saying that we had a sitter 6 days before my birthday. We have a regular babysitter every two weeks, so having her come 6 days before my birthday is nothing special.
That was it.
I said the title of this blog, then said I didn't want to talk about it anymore because anything he offered to do was simply out of fear and not love or respect. Then I maturely ran to my room, locked the door and cried myself to sleep while he put the kids to bed.
I should have a warning at the beginning of this blog that this post is a pity party!
My anger stems from years and years of my mom forgetting my birthday. This is coupled by having it during the holidays and rarely having parties as a child and my day being overshadowed by Christmas. At 30 and with a 8 week-old baby, I threw my own party with only grunts from my husband, who would just assume we live as hermits and never socialize.
So, I'm probably going to schedule a spa day for myself and spend some ridicuous amount of money, that I don't have, trying to pamper myself and make myself feel better. Or maybe I'll calm down and come up with something a little more constructive . . .