Can somebody please explain to me how I've come to a point in my life where I both look forward to and dread the weekend?

The first part is easy. I look forward to it for the afforded opportunity to spend time with Eric and run group errands that would be otherwise much more complicated. Having another adult around for conversation and to help with Sam is a luxury I don't get much during the week. We sometimes eat out, too, which is also very nice.

On the other hand, there's the horrible, yet undeniable fact that 99.999% of the fights between myself and Eric occur on Saturdays and Sundays. Weekdays might entail the occasional tiff, but we seem to reserve the all-out brawls for the weekends.

Statistically, I can't be certain whether or not that's significant. I mean, we just don't spend enough time together during the week to compare. He gets home around 6:30, just when I'm finishing dinner. We sit down to eat, and then we have an hour or so before putting Sam to bed. After that, we may have a few more hours to ourselves, depending on how tired I am and how much I want to go to bed myself. That simply can't compare to the fifteen waking hours we have together each day at week's end. Perhaps we argue more then simply because we have more chances to come into conflict.

I'm not certain that's the answer, though. Yesterday, for example, Eric took the day off of work for a doctor's appointment, and we had a terrific day together all day long (culminating in some lovely fun after Sam went to bed - Rowr!). Today? Not so much. Like so many Saturdays start for us, I began to get irritated with him before he even got out of bed. Actually, that was why I was angry; he was lying there in bed, relaxing while I was trying to get the family up and moving. I have no idea why that's an issue for me, but it is. When I want us moving, I want it now, and it drives me crazy to have him trying to lie in bed as the hours pass.

So I'm irritated, and things just snowballed from there. Little things become potential hot spots. "What shall we have for lunch?" becomes "We have no money" becomes "You spend too much." "Please get dressed" becomes "I have no clean underwear" becomes "You're not taking care of the family." (Of course I'm paraphrasing, and this is all much stronger rhetoric than was actually spoken aloud.) Soon we were sniping at each other, hearing things that were unsaid and responding to implication over speech. When Eric began to sweep the kitchen floor, I felt insulted. When Sam escaped me, went into the kitchen, and got in Eric's way, Eric felt I was deliberately ignoring his needs.

I hate Saturdays.

And now it's snowing and sleeting and making a general hazard area out of our world, so we're likely going to be housebound here tomorrow. We'll argue and snap and whine and complain until we're just completely sick of each other, and we'll feel guilty about doing it because we really do love each other. I hate hurting Eric, honestly, and when I do it, I feel rotten enough to become even more unpleasant company.

Why does this happen? I think the main problem is that we're feeding off of each other's misery. I have a difficult time being happy when he's not, and, well, he's not right now. He's doing the taxes, which would be a chore in and of itself, and he's looking up every few minutes to bite at me over my rather un-businesslike business records and organization. Okay, he's got a point, but long after he's made it, he continues to try to drive it home. I feel hurt, he feels dismissed, and it's not a pretty picture.

We're a great big codependent wreck, is what we are. Ain't nobody happy when nobody's happy, so to speak.

While I'm venting, I should unload all the way, I suppose. Sam's teething again, which means that he wants to be attached to me all night long. Normally, I don't mind, but when he's uncomfortable like this, he doesn't nurse quietly. He shifts and twists, searching for a position that will ease his misery; he gropes and rubs my skin in an effort to comfort himself. I can't just sleep through his struggles, so we both are exhausted in the morning.

It's snowing, and I can't leave the house. I get stir-crazy when I can't get out of here at least once a day, so winter drives me bonkers. I'm also cold, and my foot aches; I dropped a jembe drum on the top of my foot almost seven years ago, and I think I may have actually fractured a bone, because now it hurts whenever the weather changes.

I need a haircut. I need to vacuum. I need some red cotton yarn. I need a hug.

"I hate the water, and I hate being wet,
and I hate you!" (Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom)

And that's just about how I feel about now: a big, whining harridan who can't control herself or be anything other than a shrew. It's sleeting and snowing outside, and my beloved husband wants to take a walk to get away from me. He's not actually going to do it, but it's the thought that counts.

I probably shouldn't be airing out these thoughts. They should have stayed on a piece of paper or in my private journal, not out in the open where I'm sure they'll bring in well-meant but unhelpful comments about Eric, me, or our issues. I know we need to communicate better; I'm aware that a qualified counselor would probably be of great help. I'm aware of lots of things.

I'm not sure where I was going with this.

You know what's wrong with the way we live today? There's nowhere you can go, no acceptable way to have a good old primal scream. You scream in your house, and your neighbors call the police. Go out in your yard, and it's even more likely to draw the Boys in Blue. There are no forests, no meadows, no canyons where you can go to just let it all hang out in one magnificent bellow that leaves you shaking, hoarse, and feeling drained but better. You have to hold it all in, letting off steam in brief, quiet outbursts that make you feel almost worse than before you started.

I need to shout. I need to jump. I need to release what's inside of me that has nowhere to go. Eric's in the kitchen, kneading dough; he must feel the same way. Kneading is good for that: slam the dough. Punch it. Pick it up and throw it down again. Pound it until all the frustrations are encased in the ball and your muscles are weak with the exertion of shoving them in there.

I make a lot of bread these days.