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.