February 2, 2008

I had the worst fight with John this morning. He found the kids downstairs, playing in his den, and he was furious. Not at them -- they are only four and two 1/2, they don't understand how weird all this is. He was angry at me, for not keeping them upstairs. I get it -- it is a disturbing place, and the fact that they don't know that it's disturbing makes the whole thing even worse -- but I can't be right on top of them all the time. I don't think that John realizes that I have to watch him, too. When I told him this, he said, "The twentieth isn't for three more weeks! Give me a break!" It's actually less than three weeks -- eighteen days from today. From tonight. And there is no guarantee that John won't start breaking down before that. It's started as early as three days before, once or twice. I have not told him this, though, and I can never be sure exactly how much he remembers, afterwards. Hopefully not much.
We have made up now. John came upstairs and told me that he was sorry, that he knows how much strain I'm under. There is enough strain to go around, obviously. We both need to try to be understanding.