Mea culpa

My husband is my #1 fan, but I think he feels that I have misled you with some of the content in my most recent “dishwashing” post.  I was watching him read it.  I knew what was coming, despite his meager attempts at flashing me a courtesy smile from across the room.  He was avoiding all attempts at eye contact and had very little to say.  So I took a deep breath and asked the obvious question, “You think I threw you under the bus, don’t you?”  His response, “Just my legs.”  I felt bad.  The last thing I want to envision is my husband fighting to free his legs from the imaginary bus he thinks I just ran over him with. 

I need to clear something up.  My husband does the dishes.  Sure I do them 57 times to his 3, but that is not his fault.  I am home all day.  He is not.  I would not be a nice person if I left a heaping pile of dirty dishes on the counter for my husband to do after he gets home from work, just because I am sick of doing them.  In addition, I am not bitter towards him for the fact that I spend hours of my life washing, drying, loading, unloading, and putting away dish after dish after dish.

To his credit, sometimes I don’t want him to help.  I have control issues.  I like things done a certain way and when they are not done that way, it bothers me.  It bothers me to a point that I have to do it over.  Not because he did it wrong, or that my way is right, but because things have a “place” in my world…a specific place…a very specific place.  I know that it’s ridiculous and a very dysfunctional way of operating, but this is my reality and I have made peace with it.  Trust me, I roll my eyes at myself several times a day for being so obnoxious about silly little things that at the end of the day really don’t matter at all.  I once attended a funeral of a woman that I had never met.  She was the mother of a co-worker.  While standing in the lobby offering my condolences, I noticed an interesting piece of memorabilia sitting on a table next to this woman’s picture that haunts me to this day.  It said, “A clean house is a sign of a wasted life.”  I felt really bad for a few days after that, but then I gave myself a pep talk, straightened the soup cans in the pantry, and ironically felt much better about myself.   

Here are the facts.  My husband does do the dishes.  And I am crazy.             

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