It feels ironic and sort of wrong to be writing this blog when my husband is currently busting his ass so hard for our family. Barry is in the middle of renovating a tiny home for us to reside in as we pursue our new gypsy thug lifes. He is constructing and repairing things pretty much all the hours of the day right now. After 23 years, I am convinced that this man will bust his ass for us. These days, 99.8% of the time, he knows exactly what I want and need and how to make things run smoothly between he and I. But there was a day (read: years) when our wires got consistently crossed. Marriage doesn’t come with a manual and even if it did, guys wouldn’t read it. The learning curve is steep and many a blunder is made. Women are a mystery, I am the first to admit, and Barry could surely write the same sort of blog about me. But this blog isn’t about me, it’s about him and the stupid stuff he did when he was just a fledgling husband.
It has been my experience that if a man knows WHAT to do, he will, in most cases, do it. But the learning curve is steep and most of them have to learn to ignore their first idea or instinct for about the first decade and a half. Isn’t half the battle knowing what NOT to do? For instance, NOW he knows what I don’t want for my birthday. NOW he knows not to drive my hugely pregnant self to a Petite’s store and snicker while asking me if I would like to go in a try a few things on. NOW he knows that I don’t want a fabric, cigarette smelling rose from a gas station. NOW he knows that when he sees my post-nursing, floppy boobs he should not go wide-eyed and utter, “What can you do?” You know, the basics. Knowledge is power. Most of all, NOW he knows what not to do on Mother’s Day.
As the legend goes, it was Mother’s Day 2002. I had just given birth to my third baby, a nine pounder, with no drugs (curtsy, cue the applause). I felt like I had ascended to a new level of motherhood by outnumbering us and I spent every waking and sometimes sleeping moment tending to the needs of tiny humans. I figured that surely I was earning some kind of special reward for Mother’s Day that year. All of the diapers, the nursing, the snacks, the laundry, the baths, the stories, the fingerpaint. Certainly I had achieved some sort of Sainthood status. I just knew that Barry was going to adequately reward me when Mother’s Day came around. I fantasized about what he might be planning and got pre-excited. (This is a horrible thing that I do that screws me over every single time.) I went to bed excited about Mother’s Day the night before and rolled over with hope in my eyes the next morning.
Barry had gotten in late from work and was disoriented and confused to be awakened by a person with hopes and dreams. It took him a minute to remember who I was and what day it was but he finally roused and reached over the side of the bed. He pulled out a Wal-mart bag and my excitement did not abate because I love Wal-mart. What happened next was a historic moment for husbands all over the world. In one small bag, Barry held the power to make every other man who did not make this choice for Mother’s Day into a hero. He reached into the bag and pulled out a box of…wait for it…Pop Tarts. He pulled out a foil pouch, ripped it open and handed me one. His eyes weren’t open enough to see my mouth gaping at him. He was busy making other men into heroes. He reached back into the bag and pulled out…drumroll please…a juice box. He busied himself with getting the straw in the hole while I tried to discern if this was a joke or not. Surely not. Surely I didn’t push three bowling ball babies out of my nether regions and then go on to serve them selflessly at the expense of my body, sleep and sanity for…pop tarts and a juice box. Maybe this was just a, “Here Honey, just let this hold you over while I rush on into the kitchen to make you the breakfast in bed you deserve, complete with coffee, hot food not from boxes and some flowers”, but no. He laid his head back on his pillow and fell back asleep. I stared laser holes of death at him until I found some words. They were easy to find and this has never happened again. See? It’s all about knowing what NOT to do. When I tell this story now, Barry likes to interject that he was up realllll late that night before. To that I say that if he pushed a human being out of one of the smallest holes in his body during that night of work, then I would excuse the oversight.
This story accidentally became a part of our live performance one ill-fated night. Barry has written a bluesy love song of sorts, aptly titled, “Bust My Ass” all about how he would do anything for my love. He had just launched into the epic solo outro part of the song when I launched into this story, tongue in cheek, freestyle. Oh yeahhhhhh, surrrrrrre you’ll bust yer aaaaaasssss…what about the pop tarts???? He was shocked by my sudden outburst but he has adjusted to my therapeutic need to sing about it at every single concert until the end of time. He has given me plenty of material so I have lots of chances to mix it up story-wise, but the Pop Tarts always make it into the show. We have even taken it so far as to invite other ladies up to whisper their sordid story into my ear, and I will sing it for them. You should see the husbands all go pale when I give that invitation.
Let’s face it, love is a circus and since men are never going to read a manual, this kind of stuff is likely going to keep on happening. But if one young husband happens to read this blog and I can keep one young mother from pop-tart-juice-box syndrome, then my work here is done.
I am not one of those girls who thinks that men are buffoons even if this blog makes it sound that way. Truly, my husband is one of the good ones who does indeed bust his ass and I am just lucky that he doesn’t blog.
P.S. Ladies, heck even gentlemen…please give me more song fodder! I need new material! I need your “pop tart” type stories so that I can keep audiences on their toes as most of our hard core fans are tired of hearing about the juice box. And in this case, I know that truth is stranger than fiction.
HERE’S A SHAKY FAN VID OF ONE OF THE FIRST PERFORMANCES OF “BUST MY ASS”.
https://youtu.be/G_ZggPAxTYQ
