Love, Housework, and Marriage

I guess I was pretty spoiled the first seven years of our marriage. The first year, when I was working, Chris got up every morning to make my lunch. He even tried to cook dinner a few times. After we had moved into and renovated our house in Nashville and I was home with the babies, Chris did the dishes every night. Every night. He said it was the least he could do since I was fixing supper every night. At least once a week, he got down on his hands and knees and wiped down the hardwood floors, and every once in a while he would turn into a virtual cleaning machine and dust the entire house. I didn't even have to ask him to do these things.

Well, things have changed. I can't remember the last time he washed the dishes. And I can't say I blame him, really. We moved- into a trailer- an hour or more from where he works every day- and he's got a lot on his plate these days.  After a day at work, he no longer has a mere 10 minute drive home, and there is something about driving that hour from Nashville that makes you want a nap in a bad way, so I get why the dishes go undone. Why in the world should he care about wiping down the laminate flooring of an old, dumpy trailer? And since he isn't here most of the day, the clutter and dust doesn't wear on his nerves like it does mine. So, for the most part, I try to understand and be the best stay-at-home mom-wife I can be.

But one day, Chris took the day off.

He spent the day piddling with this and that, with nothing too important on his agenda. He watched the news in the morning while I got the kids ready for school and news in the evening while I cooked supper, and, instead of washing the dishes like I hoped he would to give me a break for once, he put on his jammies and went to watch more TV.

There's nothing more depressing than waking up to a messy kitchen in the morning, so I channeled my frustration into some energy and went to the kitchen to wash the dishes. As I sloshed the soapy water around with my dish cloth, I started daydreaming:

Chris is the only one that uses these big bowls and spoons. What if I washed everything but those? I could let them pile up all dry and crusty on this side of the sink until every single one of them was dirty. That would show him.

Wouldn't it be great if when he forgets to put his boxers in the hamper I let them pile up until he didn't have any clean ones and then he'd have to wear those dreaded whitey tighties?

And God forbid he pick up a toilet brush and help clean bathrooms. If we had double sinks, I'd never clean his. I bet all the hair and dried toothpaste spit would cake the whole sink. His mirror would be so spotty, he wouldn't be able to see his face.

And although he promises to help me clean the trailer, he never gets around to it. I wish I had a dust machine. I'd point it right at his blasted TV until the dust piled up so thick, he couldn't watch TV until he cleaned it.

Yes. That would show him.

But that sort of passive aggression only leads to dysfunction and a bad marriage.

(sigh)

Having finished the dishes, I walked into the room where he was laid back in the comfort of pillows.

"Thanks for helping me with the dishes." I hurled my sarcasm at him like a stone.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked, startled.

"Why should I be mad?"

I told him how frustrated I was and why, then proceeded to tell him all the things I wished I could do to get my point across.

And he laughed. Then apologized.

And I remembered that I married a good man that can't read my mind. All I needed to do was ask.