I've been reading Heather Armstrong's Dooce for a long time, and I've always been intrigued by her relationship with her husband. Today she wrote him the love letter of a lifetime...and one with an ending that could have come straight from my mouth if I were sure enough of myself to say it this way.
This comes at such an appropriate time, as well. Last night, for the first time ever, I spent the night at home alone with Pete away in Vegas. I knew I would miss him, but I was also looking forward to having the bed all to myself. When I got home, though, Sebastien had gotten sick all over the rug. This was his first time ever, and I was a little distraught. But then I encountered a major "I told you so" moment, and I was kinda sad that Pete wasn't there to tell me he told me so.
You see, last week we went to Monte Carlo Night, a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. The open bar led to much drunkeness and at the end of the night I decided all I really wanted was one more glass of champagne and two balloons to take home. I tied two balloons to my chair and asked Pete to watch them while I went to get the champagne. When I came back, one of the balloons was gone. Disappointed, I chided him for not protecting his loved one's cherished items, and I went and got another balloon. Pete, in his logical state, decided it would be a great idea to pop one of my balloons in front of me. He threatened. I begged him not to (that balloon was EVERYTHING, people). I told him I'd be really upset. He laughed and popped my balloon. MY BALLOON!!!! I was so upset and he thought it was all so funny that I just couldn't stand it anymore. So I poured a (clear) drink on him. Afterward I said, "I've always wanted to do that". Pete, justifiably angry, walked away. He came back to get his insulin, but I refused to let him go. So we spent the evening fighting over who was wrong--"it was just a balloon!" "but it was MY balloon and I WANTED it!"--and came home with only one balloon.
Fast forward to the next day after we'd made up because we realized how stupid we were--Sebastien had a strange fascination with the balloon. Now, I expected him to be a little curious, but he chased this thing like it was a giant mosquito invading his territory. After the balloon lost its helium, we found out why. Sebastien wanted to steal the ribbon from the balloon. He really had to have this ribbon, and the fact that it was tied to the balloon made it both more enticing, and easy for him to smell. So I hid the deflated balloon and ribbon in my nightstand (going to the outside trash was too much effort). He waited until I left it open a crack and got the balloon back out. This happened a few times before I finally hid it in another bag of trash. The next day, I found him playing with the ribbon again. I noticed that it looked shorter, but didn't think much of it. I took the balloon to the main trash can to be rid of it for good.
Or what I thought was for good. Because last night when I came home and saw the mess on the floor, the first thing I noticed was what had to be the cause of his sickness. The remnants contained a long piece of curly balloon ribbon.
Pete wasn't there to share in my sadness that our baby had his first upchuck. But more importantly, Pete wasn't there to tell me "I told you so" one of the few times I REALLY deserved to hear it.
And I missed him so much for it.
Thank you, Heather, for your post.
And I love you, Pete :)