How an Organ Almost Ruined My Marriage...

My eyes popped open this morning, as the sunlight from an over-zealous nearby star shone through our blinded windows.

Stupid sun...

I suddenly had an urgent desire to be super productive, so I rolled out of bed and made my way into the bathroom where I flattened my over-excited hair, and flat ironed my wrinkly face. I looked at myself in the mirror, and talked to myself while I brushed my teeth.

"Today, you are going to be the sweetest, most awesome-est mommy and wife EVER!" I said to myself. My studies in "The Miracle of Forgiveness" made me want to be better, and left my mind ever linger over the question of whether or not I was committing a sin by whatever it is I was doing at the current moment.

I walked into our bedroom, and at Jeremy's crumpled face and body in the bed. 

"WAKE UP!" I exclaimed in a harsh whisper.

Jeremy groaned and mumbled, "Why?"

Valid question. I ignored it. I then made some remark about our kids being awake, and that we needed to be responsible. 

As the morning progressed, Joshua dubbed himself courier, and brought both of our ringing phones to use while we stood in the bathroom. It was Mom and Dad. 

And then I remembered....

We were supposed to move the organ today. 

No, I'm not talking about the kind that you put in a cooler and take to the hospital, or perhaps to the black market. 

The instrument.

As in, Gigi's organ. 

I suddenly felt like the organ had stomped on my day and ruined all my fantastical plans of getting ten pounds of bananas at the store. I NEEDED those bananas, by gum!

It wasn't that I didn't WANT the organ. I really did. It was something I needed, and something that held a great deal of sentimental value.

The organ just reminded me that we didn't have anybody to help us move it. 

Oh, sure, we have neighbors, and ward members, and whatnot. It's just that after almost two and a half years of living here we aren't on a first-name basis with anybody. And, as you all know, unless you can call up someone and use their first name, you can't ask them to help you move your Grandma's organ. Just can't. If you have done this, shame on you. 

Anyway, then began the scramble, trying to find people to help. 

Let's back up a little, to refresh your memory...I woke up at the crack of dawn. After going to bed after 1 AM. As in, I got less than six hours of sleep. I was a mess waiting to happen.

So, there Jeremy was, trying really hard to find people in the ward to help, but nobody was responding, and there I was on the phone with Dad, trying to help him realize that he has lived in his neighborhood for 12 years and he is on a first-name basis with everyone, and the fact that he had no idea who he could call was just plain silly, I came to the conclusion that maybe, since other people wanted the organ, they should put it back up for free on KSL, and said so, all while Dad is telling me that they wanted it gone today, and Jeremy was yelling at  emphatically stating to me that he would figure something out, and not to jump any guns, and I was trying really hard to keep myself together, and so I graciously turned to him and said (and to my Dad because he was on the phone):

"STOP YELLING AT ME!" and stomped out of the room, where I promptly started to tear up, and wish that I was dead.

Well, no...I wished that Jeremy was dead.

Mom said something to me a long time ago that has stuck with me. She said (proudly, or maybe pragmatically, or sagely...I dunno) that it took her a long time to figure out how to explain herself to Dad without crying. I thought, "Gee, that's a good thing to learn." As a consequence of my efforts, I can very starchily and logically explain what I am feeling to Jeremy much like someone would explain how to create a power point presentation. I can't say it works, but I have a sense of pride every time I accomplish this. 

And I tell myself that I am sparing Jeremy turmoil by not being a puddle, and I'm sparing myself a lot of unneeded make-up retouching. 

Well, after I wrapped things up with Dad on the phone, I walked into the kitchen, struggling to keep the pesky tears from ruining my make-up. Jeremy's entire countenance crumbled as he saw my face. 

"I'm so sorry..." he said. I shot him a withering, soggy look, and then walked over the pantry. He followed me, and attempted to make amends while I attempted to shove my pregnant body into the small space and close the door.

His hazel eye peered in at me through the wide crack between the pantry doors, and I wished my belly wasn't protruding so far. 

"I'm sorry..." he began again. 

"Leave me alone..."

This went on until Jeremy had to leave to pick up the moving van, and during the eight subsequent phone calls he made to me while he was gone, and all through the rest of that morning, and into the afternoon when I finally forgave him after he bought me a taco salad. 

It's making me rethink the whole not-crying thing. 

I finally evened out after a nap, and even happily jumped up and down in a circle, holding hands with all my little ladies as "Winter Wizards" played on Pandora.

Jeremy looked over at us, and I said, brightly, "Look! We're a estrogen molecule!" 

Yeah. I think I'm prego bi-polar. But I think it will be okay. I'll just have to cry a lot. You know...for Jeremy's sake.