We got home Friday after work, then split up-- me to the bedroom with laptop and DVDs, she to the living room with Chico. Around 9:30, she popped in and silently offered me a plate of French toast with a nice glass of milk, then came back half an hour later to pick up the dishes. Perfect.
Around 10:40, she busted in, saying she missed me and couldn't wait all the way till 11. We snuggled up on the bed and made it another ten minutes, till she brought up something about IVF and I begged her to stop. I told her I couldn't stand to think about it and that I really needed a break. She persisted, saying I was exaggerating how much we talked about it, and I started to cry in her arms. This went over poorly, several minutes later resulting in her leaving the room. It wasn't even 11 yet.
I turned all the lights out, turned the TV back on, and curled up in the middle of the bed, because I was so angry that I would not abide by the normal her side/my side system.
At some point she came back in, was incensed that I had blown off the fight and started watching TV again. A solid "Fuck you!" followed, and I followed her back to the living room so we could keep saying awful things to each other. I said I felt that all we did was talk about IVF, etc., and she disputed. I said there was a voicemail on my phone from Therapist Michele that I couldn't bear to play, and that I was haunted by having to make more phone calls Monday. I'd still forgotten about the stockbroker.
"Maybe our relationship can't survive this," she said. "Maybe we should just quit."
There was more to it, and we're still going, but that's what happens. Thank god for Saturday's cute baby. My arms are still tired.