There are some things which as a mother I get a little, um, sensitive about. I don't know it it's hormonal, if it's some sort of rite of passage, or it's just me being a bit crazy, but sometimes what I hear isn't exactly what is said.
What Dear Husband says: "You know darling, Chubs's hair is getting a bit long, do you think we Should get it cut?"
What I hear: "How about we take Chubs out and get someone to slice her skin with a razor blade and then give her four tattoos."
What Dear Husband says: "You know darling, we could just buy Chubs a birthday cake"
What I hear: "You know darling, we could just buy Chubs a birthday cake, and then after the party we can let her play in a pile of used syringes and chew on some cigarette butts."
What Dear Husband says: "Hey darling, you think we should try some of these baby food pouches?"
What I hear: "If we buy Chubs these pouches then all the GoodMotherPoints you got from mashing up all that pumpkin into ice cube trays will null and void, actually all the GoodMotherPoints that you ever got from doing anything at all will be wiped if we even give her one spoon full of pre made baby food. Oh, and we should then let her chew on some lead paint."
It's crazy, it's irrational, and it's pretty bad. It's like I had a Caesaran and an ear implant at the same time, which translates perfectly reasonable suggestions into crazy-lady-extremo.
By the way, we are huge huge baby food pouch fans, probably too much so. "From six months" still counts at 19 months, right? Still no hair cut though, and it's one homemade bitrhday cake for one, so far. Phew.