The Argument That Taught Us Something About Ourselves

Or: the Sunday scuffle that made a whole lot of sense

Last weekend we had what I’d call a soft Sunday argument.

You know the kind: not yelling, not dramatic, just…kind of tense. Sharp around the edges. The kind where one of you finally says something that’s been bubbling under the surface for way too long.

We’d just wrapped several weeks of nonstop motion: hosting two different rounds of out-of-town guests, planning our son’s 10th birthday party, keeping the house from falling apart, working on content, managing emails and edits and affiliate links and inboxes that never seem to shrink. And now it was Sunday. The first quiet-ish day in a long time.

PJ was ready to rest. Like, truly rest. He was on the couch with the kids, hoping for a slow day, probably considering even taking a nap. Meanwhile, I was pacing around with my phone in hand asking about photos we needed to post and emails we hadn’t sent yet. I kept saying, “I just want to get a few things done so Monday isn’t so packed.”

And that’s when shit hit the fan.