He only comes out at night

My beloved R has gone nuts. The combined pressure of holding down a job as general manager, moving (did I mention that our former landlord won’t give us the bond back because he claims we scratched the wooden floors?) and coming home to a colossal, exhausted wife and frustrated, teething baby has flipped his hard drive into full scale crash mode. How has this manifested? Last week I criticised the way he was folding the baby’s clothes (folding is a euphemism for what he was doing. Clumsily Bundling with Menace would be a more apt description). He responded by calling me a Cunt.

Cunt.

A word he has never called me in ten years of marriage.

I responded equally calmly. I took his glasses off his face and broke them in two. And I delighted in the activity. He’s needed new glasses for years and the thought of him having to live with some impediment for a few days pleased me. I’m living with a belly so large I can’t even see the pants I’m wearing right now. Why should the fucker get off scott free? ‘Sides, he looks good with contacts. It highlights his Big Jewish Shnoz, which is meant to be a sign of a Big Jewish Shlong.

We screamed and shouted for a while, then took the baby and went swimming in the sea. When we returned I told him I would like to officially change my name to Glasses Cunt if it pleases him. He apologised profusely and swore to never use the word again.

The Hurling-Cunt-Epithet incident was a precursor to a far more worrying display of his recent onset of insanity. The 4AM This Morning Wanker Incident has made me fear I may need to bring in the men with white coats.

I’m sleeping. A rare event for me nowadays as it requires me to be in a position where my uterus isn’t being crushed by the two large beasties who have annexed it. Plus it’s been the hottest summer in Sydney since forever and it’s unusual for me to find the balance between dripping with sweat and being able to breathe while the fan blows incessantly in my face. Nonetheless on this very morning at 4Am I was happily asleep.
R shakes me angrily.
Me: What is it?
R: (agitated) I NEED to masturbate.
Me: What?
R (growing angry to the point that I fear the C word may emerge) I NEED TO MASTURBATE!
Me: Okay. Maybe you should go to the bathroom?
R: What?
Me: It might be easier in there.
R: (stirring from sleep) What are you talking about?
Me: Wanking. Tonking off. Beating the Jerkey. Go for it.
R: (Extremely angry) Why did you wake me? What are you on about? Don’t you know I’ve barely had any sleep in the last week?
Me: But you said you NEEDED to masturbate.
R: Is this your idea of being funny?
Me: Goodnight.
R: I love you. Don’t wake me again unless you’re in labour.

What frightens me about the whole thing is:
1. His subconscious is so polite it uses the official word ‘masturbate’ rather than the more casual ‘wank’. Is he repressed?
2. My response was to relegate him to bathroom, a not very sexy part of the house. Am I am a prude? Why do I equate seminal discharge with ablution? I’ve always thought of myself as sexually open and adventurous. Have I been fooling myself?
3. We last had sex when I could see my toes and we officially have to refrain from it for 6 weeks after the birth. If the man’s subconscious is waking him up now demanding that he spank the monkey, can you imagine the chronic case of blue balls he’ll have by the time I’m ready for rompy-pompy again? He’ll leap upon me like an ornery bull on a phere-moaning cow and my recently sewn together bits will rip at the seams.
4. I never managed to get back to sleep.

I’ve encouraged him to spend some time alone tonight. In the bedroom. Hell, I may not be able to offer him a hand at the moment (the carpel tunnel syndrome associated with pregnancy doesn’t make for light flickering of the wrists) but I’ll whack on the Barry White and sprinkle some rose petals if it works for him.

Sometimes I forget I’m not the only one in this house carrying a heavy load.