What Goes Around Comes Around. Twice.

My husband and I have been married for eleven years. Eleven years is a long time to do anything. We've seen our share of ups and downs, and that is the understatement of the year. I am not the easiest woman to be married to, for any number of reasons. I am grossly insecure and particularly needy and excessively sensitive. He's got his things, too, but this isn't about him today, it's about me. I've made him work for this relationship. I change the rules on him constantly and expect him to just keep up. Example: When he met me, I worked three jobs, 19 hours a day, 6 days a week. Now I stay home and let him go to work for at least 12 hours every single day while I fail in every way to so much as wash the dishes. He does this with a smile on his face, or so I assume; it's not like I ever actually see his face anymore. I'd like to say that he at least gets to come home to a hot little body waiting for him in lingerie, but what he really comes home to is a snoring wife wearing his sweat pants hogging his side of the bed who used to be a size -0 and is now a solid 12.

I make few apologies for this. It's not like I knocked myself up with a baby that decided to make me gain 105 pounds in nine months, after all.

However misguided my feelings on the subject, I do feel a little bad that the 98 pound girl with a D cup you could stack plates on that he signed up for a life with has now turned into a National Geographic centerfold. I feel bad enough, in fact, that I, on occasion, will buy him pistachios and roses and have them waiting for him when he comes home in the middle of the night after the umpteenth night straight at work.

Roses & Pistachios are the way to a man's heart

He reciprocates occasionally, coming home late from work on the nights he's due in early, bearing gifts for me, too.

If I wrap the divorce in silk, it will be an appropriate 12th anniversary gift

That is a gym membership, brought home for me last week, because apparently he wants a divorce. You leave a man enough times and he'll start double-dog daring you to do it again, all for the low low price of $31/month.

To his credit, he did include all-you-can-eat childcare in the package. So now I can't bitch about being fat, having no where to go OR having no one to watch my kid while I go there anymore. It's like he's robbed me of everything, including my lovely lady lumps. Asshole.

But I'm determined to use it, partly because I do want to get the fuck out of this house occasionally, and I would like to do it sans-four-year-old, but mostly because I'm sick people congratulating me and asking me when the baby is due. The best answer to which is, "Four years, three months and eleven days ago; thanks for asking." So I went last night to try this thing out. I got the four year old ready to go and the nine year old announced that he'd like to go as well. So I put my gym bag down, huffed a little, and called to see if I had a two-for-one daycare special. Which I do. I grabbed my bag, my two youngest, and headed out the door when my eleven year old ran down the stairs in full gym gear asking if he could come, too. You know, to work out with me.

Seriously, I just started being able to poop without company. Will there never be a moment's rest from these people?

So I put everything down, again, and called the gym, again, huffed, AGAIN, and lied about his age, again, and found out that I could bring him. So off we all went. 45 minutes after I was planning on getting to the gym, we had two kids checked into daycare and one magically-turned twelve year old on an elliptical next to me. Who beat my fat fucking ass, hard. Every spanking this kid has ever received in his entire life was repaid last night, in full. He pwned me.

Vengeance is a dish best served sweaty, with burning quads.

It's not like I can let me kid out-work me. If he does 50 crunches on the ab-thingy, I have to do 50, also. If he's barely broken a sweat after 20 minutes on the elliptical, I have to grin and pray silently for god to strike us all dead and spare me this humiliating torture. If he gets through an entire circuit and asks to do it again, well, I just have to do it all again. Even if I can't stand upright anymore. Even if I've sweated out every drop of moisture in my body and am now replacing that sweat with blood. Even if my legs are jello and I can't recall where my arms used to be. Even if I just want so scream that THIS WAS MY PRESENT AND YOU ARE RUINING IT, SHORT PERSON. I can't do that, now can I? We're having a bonding moment, right? One of those fleeting mother-son moments that will be over the second this kid learns what a Playboy magazine is. Which, thanks to him, I may be able to appear in someday.