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For the Days You Want to Kill Your Husband

Photograph by Twenty20

This morning, I fixed my husband a piping hot travel mug of coffee for his drive to work. I said goodbye to him as he headed to his truck. I handed him the lunch I had packed for him and told him to have a good day. I turned back into my house full of sick and puking kids.

And I kind of wanted to cry.

In that moment, as my husband cheerfully whistled as he climbed in his truck and pulled away from the household of vomit, I felt downright resentful. In that moment, I sort of hated the man I had pledged my life to, the very one who was now driving away from the barf fest that he was leaving me to swim alone in.

A few days ago, that man and I celebrated our 10th anniversary. At the ripe old age of 31, we have already been married for a decade, a fact that seems downright ridiculous to me. But in those years, I've realized something really important that I wished someone had told me about marriage: There will absolutely be days that you hate your husband. And that's OK.

Looking back, I can honestly say that there have been a lot of times when I genuinely wondered if we would make it. Times that I simmered and stewed in resentment, wondering what life would look like if we split up. Times that I imagined shuffling the kids between two houses. Times that I really and truly couldn't imagine us overcoming this particular fight.

There's always hope, even when we hate each other.

But, of course, just when I thought it was The Fight That Would End All Fights, we would get over it. We would go on a date night or finally have a moment alone or be forced to actually talk it out, and we would remember that oh, yeah, we kind of like this person, after all. And, just like that, life didn't look so bad.

While I may not be the best wife ever—I go to bed before my husband, I rarely cook dinner and I sometimes sleep right through the kids waking up at night—I do know that I'm not a horrible wife for occasionally hating my husband.

Even at our 10-year anniversary dinner, when I was happily chowing down on some fish tacos that my husband drove an hour to surprise me with (#truelove), we looked over at each other and wondered out loud just how many times we have hated each other through the years. How's that for romance?

We were able to laugh about it because we both know that a fight—even a full-out battle with snowballs from both sides—won't break us. There's always hope, even when we hate each other.

It's the truth. And if someone would have assured me early on that hating each other every now and then is just part of the game, and that there's usually nothing that can't be fixed with a little reconnection, some alone time, I might have saved myself a lot of worrying.

Oh, and a drink or two never hurts either.

These days, when the inevitable icy freeze hits and I go back to being the wifely version of Grumpy Cat, grumbling to myself as my husband sips the delicious coffee that I made him while I scrub puke out of my eyebrows, I just remember: This too shall pass.

And in the meantime? Well, at least I still have fish tacos.

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