I can remember watching ‘The Exorcist’ back in 1997, with my then boyfriend.  I can remember watching in horror (which I guess is the idea – clue is in the genre title, right?) as the young girl’s head rotated 360 degrees and she spewed forth green plasma type bile.

Little did I know that fourteen years later, standing in a kitchen that was mine, with three small children sitting in the next room playing quietly (okay…well quietly for them anyway) I would do a very close and unplanned impression of 12 year old Regan.

It began with Hubbster walking in through the door after work.  I was in the kitchen preparing dinner, waiting with baited breath, for the imminent eruption of random howls and unnecessary screams that are associated with arsenic hour in my home.

Then from nowhere a pair of white jocks appeared from nowhere on the kitchen table as Hubbster rushed passed in a manner that suggested he was in a hurry to get somewhere.

Puzzled I asked “Where did those jocks come from?”

“I just put them there.  I’m changing to go to cricket practice.”

At this stage my eyes glowed that irridencent yellow which no doubt signaled to Hubbster that the ground that he was walking on had suddenly become dangerously slippery and I fixed him with a glare that warned him to tread carefully.

You see, Hubbster agreed not to play cricket this season (which is now more than halfway through).  What with Tennis on Tuesday nights, and Surfing and go-cart racing on weekends I felt that, cricket training on a Tuesday and Thursday (5.30-7.30 – yes!  The hardest time of day with littlies) plus matches all weekend was well….a bit of a piss take.

When are we supposed to get some quality family time?  And when do I get a break?

Hubbster is, admittedly, the sporty type.  He likes to be active, and is always on the go – which is clearly where The Woo gets his excessive energy levels from.

I get that.

And if Hubbster wants to go on the odd evening to train and get some (more) exercise, that’s okay too.

But…and it’s a big BUT…I do not appreciate being taken for granted.  I do not appreciate being ‘told’ that he is about to leave the house in 10 minutes time to go to cricket practice and is effectively dodging the arsenic hour.

I do not like the lack of communication and the assumption that we do not need to discuss it.

I do not like losing my shit and opening a can of whoop-ass on my husband at the top of my lungs.

Am I being a ball breaker or a whiney-ass biatch?  Or would you do the same in this situation?

You can tell me…I’ve got my big girl panties on today!