It’s Mr. Candy’s World, and I’m Just Lying Down in It

The moment Mr. Candy and I declared “I do” in front of a hundred family and friends, and one very nervous, very under-dressed nondenominational female minister I found on the Internet, the Universe expected us to share everything with each other.  After all, that’s what married folks are supposed to do, right?  Yet I still refuse to share a good number of things with my husband.  The remote control when I’m in the middle of a Sex and the City marathon, for example.  Or anything containing chocolate.  Or the last sip of my peach margarita.  Or any inch of my side of the bed.  Or primary control of our daughter’s life and schedule —

Uh-oh.  Turns out, I don’t have much choice in that matter now.

When the doctors told me I would have to stay in bed for weeks, if not months, for the remainder of my pregnancy, I wept in anticipation of the boredom, of the sadness over not being able to hold Skye, of my ass turning into a most unappetizing bowl of mush.  But never did it cross my mind that the most difficult part would be relinquishing control to Mr. Candy — even though that painful journey actually started in the hospital, where Mr. Candy would bring Skye to visit me before and after daycare.  Those visits were the highlights of my days, and yet…

MR. CANDY:  We’re here!  How are you feel —

ME:  Why is Skye not wearing green for daycare?  It’s St. Patrick’s Day, for crying out loud!

MR. CANDY:  [GIVING ME A LOOK]  She is dressed.  In semi-matching clothes.  Let’s be thankful for that.

I have since regained control of Skye’s wardrobe — let’s be honest, even if I were stuck under a train, I would still be texting clothing suggestions to him in fear that Skye would otherwise end up going to daycare wearing a diaper cover as “shorts” — but most everything else…?  Is Mr. Candy’s domain now.  I would like to preface this by reiterating how amazing my husband has been through all of this, juggling a demanding 14-hour-a-day job with an active toddler, a daycare schedule and a wife who likes the crust on her sandwiches cut off.  To give you an idea of how insane Mr. Candy’s schedule is, last week he was up until 5 a.m. working on a proposal and had to get up at 7 a.m. for a conference call — and didn’t even hit me when the alarm clock went off and I whined, Turn it off!  Make it stop! Something I’m sure he wishes he could say to me whenever I talk about wanting to change my hair color for, oh, the hundredth time that day.  But he doesn’t because he knows I would hit him.

WOW, though, is it ever hard to bite my tongue when Mr. Candy comes into our bedroom holding a burnt, wrinkled blob of plastic fabric.

MR. CANDY:  Huh.  I don’t think Skye’s mattress pad is supposed to go in the dryer.

ME:  [HEAVY SIGH]  Did you read the instructions?

MR. CANDY:  [GIVING ME A LOOK]  I am doing everybody’s laundry.  Let’s be thankful for that.

When I sneak over to select Skye’s clothes for the day, I find the unimaginable:  Dresses in the shirt drawer, pants in the socks drawer and shirts in the pajamas drawer.  The next time Mr. Candy walks into our room, I confront him with a handful of leggings:

ME:  Leggings mixed in with tights?  For the love of god, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

MR. CANDY:  Um… that leggings and tights are the same thing?

ME:  I can’t even look at you right now.

I am constantly pelting Mr. Candy with questions:  Did you bring Skylar’s snacks to daycare?  Do you have her back-up outfits?  How can you not know the difference between regular and sugar-free applesauce?  Have you watered the plants?  Do you think Tori Spelling is REALLY in a position to be dispensing wedding advice to William and Kate?   (Answers:  Yes; no; um…; no; hell no.)   Nagging is always fantastic for a marriage, almost as good as engaging your husband in a conversation about Tori Spelling, but Mr. Candy understands that nagging is all I have left, my frail grip on any remaining control.  As for The State of Our House, all I can say is thank goodness the housekeeper is coming tomorrow — although I fear when she comes through the door, she will be swallowed alive by one of the giant balls of kitty hair that have taken over our house.  Either that, or she’s going to take one look at our house and run screaming in the opposite direction.  At which point I will have no choice but to sic one of the house-sized kitty hair balls on her.   Because I need her more than ever:  at least she knows the difference between tights and leggings.  *Sigh*  (The horror!)