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"As I type this post, my son is &amp;quot;sleeping upstairs&amp;quot; in preparation for his first theatre production tonight. I can&amp;#039;t take him, because I&amp;#039;m watching three kids so that Rex&amp;#039;s ex-business partner can go with his wife to their first concert since the twins were born \u2013 Bon Jovi no less. You might recall that Von is Rex&amp;#039;s faux lover. His wife (who used to hate me but now loves me because, well, I&amp;#039;m fabulous) and Von make up the same couple that introduced Rex and me a million years ago at a Middle Eastern restaurant. They met Rex through my sister (the one from my father&amp;#039;s first marriage, not my mother&amp;#039;s) who worked with Von&amp;#039;s wife at a nursery school. Rex was still in heart ache over a broken engagement to another woman, who was best friends, and still is, with his ex-girlfriend who is taking my son to the show tonight with his daughter and my husband&amp;#039;s former officemate. Not the business partner who introduced us years ago. Got all that? Good, because I barely do. Moving on.  What makes this night special to me is that I can recall exactly what I was doing this time one year ago. The reason I remember is because  I don&amp;#039;t remember a thing about that excursion, other than arguing with my husband in the car outside the parking structure. The kids were anxious to get on the horses, but we were too high on ours to finish our fight. Like the carousel the kids would soon be enjoying, we were going up and down, round and round over something so stupid it&amp;#039;s not worth mentioning. In fact, I don&amp;#039;t even remember.   But I do remember that we had both hit a brick wall. (Emotionally, not physically. Though we might have - had I been driving. That&amp;#039;s how incensed I was.) I told him I simply could not have this conversation one more time. It was an energy suck. A time waster. If the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over but with different results, then both of us were ready for the asylum.   Side note: The mental ward probably wouldn&amp;#039;t be so bad in all reality. I could drug myself up and escape the stupid bickering of married life. I could have my meals cooked, a lot of television, and lots of colorful people to talk to. Even the most basic of outpatient facilities have arts and crafts, so instead of helping the kids make one more play dough snowman, I could make my own. Perhaps I&amp;#039;d sculpt a Starbucks. Or a self-portrait of myself lounging poolside at the Ritz. If it turned out poorly, I could blame the meds.  There&amp;#039;s only one problem with my mental house fantasy:  1. Being royally pissed off does not qualify for insanity.  2. I would never want to leave my kids. Don&amp;#039;t they have the right to be raised by two parents that fight over dumb crap just like every other child?  3. I really loved my husband. (Even though he was acting like such an ass I could have changed his name from Rex to a donkey hole. In fact, I think I did!)  Instead of the mental asylum, we opted for marriage counseling. Best thing I ever did. We are stronger, more committed and  "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/relationships/a2682/learning-to-fight-fair/?src=shelter_footer>