It never ceases to amaze me how quickly an innocuous comment or innocent question can derail a perfectly pleasant conversation. Case in point: The other night I casually asked my hubby what plans he had for the check he had recently received for some consulting services he had furnished. Now, I know what you're thinking - there is no such thing as a "casual" question about money. Everyone has their own ideas about how to earn/save/spend it and there are precious few of us walking around that aren't prone to get a little defensive when called upon to justify said ideas. But, honestly, I had no idea what flood gates were about to open. I had no hidden agenda. I wasn't lobbying for a new Coach bag or a day at the spa; I was just curious. Honest.
Let's just say we haven't been talking much since that conversation. He got defensive; I got angry. He got dismissive; I got angrier. His tone of voice finally pushed my retaliation button so hard that I resorted to calling him an a**hole (he was acting like one but I never should have said that) and I ended up slamming a couple of doors and wondering if it was too late to show up on my parents' driveway.
When I finally calmed down, I couldn't help asking myself, "What the hell just happened?" One minute we were happily chatting as he brushed his teeth and I paged through the latest Entertainment Weekly and the next minute we were in a battle worthy of a Bill O'Reilly smackdown. Did I ask the question too late at night? (Possibly. It's not his favorite time of day.) Did I invade his territory, implying that I knew better what to do with the money than he did? (I don't think so. Like I said, I wasn't looking to get my hands on any of it although he might not have heard it that way.) Was he just having a bad day? (Made even worse by a nagging back and/or wife?) Or was it just a combination of the above?
Who knows? The only thing I do know is that I have had an epiphany. I am never going to react that way again. I am never going to call my husband (or anyone else I love) a nasty name of any kind. (I can't promise I won't occasionally think it but that's a subject for another blog.)
I realize I've been married for thirty-one years and it might have been advantageous to have come to this conclusion a little earlier but wisdom comes with aging as surely as the achy knees, right? So, from this day forward, I promise to take a deep breath, say a prayer and then, after calmly telling him that I do not appreciate the way he's speaking to me, I'm going to walk away. I might end up in Indiana before I cool off but I refuse to put myself in another situation where I say things I'm going to regret.
Sounds like a good plan. Let's see if I can actually do it.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Monday, May 11, 2015
Mother's Day Times Three
I know Mother's Day only comes once a year (which is probably a good thing given how disappointed we moms tend to get over the slights - perceived or real - of our significant other and/or offspring) but this year my celebration somehow managed to span a full seventy-two hours.
Day One - The Festival of Motherhood commenced on Saturday. Since it was the only day that all the moms in my immediate family could gather, we decided to jump the gun. Leave those exorbitant Sunday brunches for the suckers who insist on celebrating when Hallmark tells them to, we reasoned, we will have our pick of any restaurant our little hearts desire. It sounded so good in theory. What we didn't factor in was having to include the two newest members of the family (the ones who made my niece and daughter eligible to participate in this year's celebration) in the festivities since both of the new dads were otherwise engaged. Don't get me wrong, they were a joy to share the table with - for the first hour or so anyway. After that, it was a mad scramble to gather up the uneaten onion straws and slurp down that last gulp of Sangria before the occasional glances coming our way turned into icy stares.
We finished up the afternoon back at Gigi's (my mom's new great-grandma moniker) place, trying to squeeze some conversation between emergency baby-proofing and diaper changes; the highlight of Day One being my sweet daughter's gift - a framed love letter to her mother (that girl sure knows how to bring on the waterworks) complete with beautiful embellishments surrounding pictures of the two of us. Other than making any subsequent photos a soggy mess, this was the kind of gift that we moms dream about. Consider this day a solid B+.
Day Two - This was the real one; the one where your hubby is supposed to bring you breakfast in bed and your kids are encouraged to fawn all over you as they remind you what an amazing mother you have been as they drown you with flowers and Mimosas. (A girl can dream, can't she?). In reality, I was up at 8, baking two kinds of bread and pulling out all the stops for a fabulous breakfast for what I thought would be my entire family. In their defense, I offered to do this since it was my daughter's first Mother's Day but still, I was expecting a bit more help from the men in my life - one of whom didn't even show up as he somehow misunderstood the order of the day and thought he was coming for dinner. Oh well, I think my daughter appreciated it. This one gets an A for the food (if I do say so myself) and the chance to make my girl's day special and a D- for having to cook and clean up on a day when I'm not supposed to have to do any of that stuff.
Day Three - My confused son wanted to make it up to me so he showed up today, very contrite and eager to show me just how much he cared. He brought me a card with a heartfelt note inside, took me to lunch, spent several hours tooling around Costco and Walmart, and even made time to pop in on the sister he had failed to wish a happy first Mother's Day (hey, she wasn't his mother). This last hurrah rates a B after deducting a few points for my son's late arrival.
When he backed out of the driveway, I felt nothing but relief that the next Mother's Day was 364 days away. After all these years, you would think I would know that it never lives up to the unrealistic expectations foisted on us by greeting cards and sitcoms. I've rarely gotten breakfast in bed (too messy), I've been disappointed in every over-priced brunch I've ever eaten, and I don't want or need anymore stuff proclaiming my position as world's greatest mom. I may have a momentary twinge of self-pity when I don't receive the pampering I mistakenly believe every other mother is receiving while I'm loading the dishwasher but I know in my heart that the moments to savor are the ones that happen on every other day of the year not singled out as Mother's Day.
And I'm lucky enough to have a family that gives me plenty of those - enough for me to get through every second Sunday in May that doesn't go exactly as I would like it to.
Day One - The Festival of Motherhood commenced on Saturday. Since it was the only day that all the moms in my immediate family could gather, we decided to jump the gun. Leave those exorbitant Sunday brunches for the suckers who insist on celebrating when Hallmark tells them to, we reasoned, we will have our pick of any restaurant our little hearts desire. It sounded so good in theory. What we didn't factor in was having to include the two newest members of the family (the ones who made my niece and daughter eligible to participate in this year's celebration) in the festivities since both of the new dads were otherwise engaged. Don't get me wrong, they were a joy to share the table with - for the first hour or so anyway. After that, it was a mad scramble to gather up the uneaten onion straws and slurp down that last gulp of Sangria before the occasional glances coming our way turned into icy stares.
We finished up the afternoon back at Gigi's (my mom's new great-grandma moniker) place, trying to squeeze some conversation between emergency baby-proofing and diaper changes; the highlight of Day One being my sweet daughter's gift - a framed love letter to her mother (that girl sure knows how to bring on the waterworks) complete with beautiful embellishments surrounding pictures of the two of us. Other than making any subsequent photos a soggy mess, this was the kind of gift that we moms dream about. Consider this day a solid B+.
Day Two - This was the real one; the one where your hubby is supposed to bring you breakfast in bed and your kids are encouraged to fawn all over you as they remind you what an amazing mother you have been as they drown you with flowers and Mimosas. (A girl can dream, can't she?). In reality, I was up at 8, baking two kinds of bread and pulling out all the stops for a fabulous breakfast for what I thought would be my entire family. In their defense, I offered to do this since it was my daughter's first Mother's Day but still, I was expecting a bit more help from the men in my life - one of whom didn't even show up as he somehow misunderstood the order of the day and thought he was coming for dinner. Oh well, I think my daughter appreciated it. This one gets an A for the food (if I do say so myself) and the chance to make my girl's day special and a D- for having to cook and clean up on a day when I'm not supposed to have to do any of that stuff.
Day Three - My confused son wanted to make it up to me so he showed up today, very contrite and eager to show me just how much he cared. He brought me a card with a heartfelt note inside, took me to lunch, spent several hours tooling around Costco and Walmart, and even made time to pop in on the sister he had failed to wish a happy first Mother's Day (hey, she wasn't his mother). This last hurrah rates a B after deducting a few points for my son's late arrival.
When he backed out of the driveway, I felt nothing but relief that the next Mother's Day was 364 days away. After all these years, you would think I would know that it never lives up to the unrealistic expectations foisted on us by greeting cards and sitcoms. I've rarely gotten breakfast in bed (too messy), I've been disappointed in every over-priced brunch I've ever eaten, and I don't want or need anymore stuff proclaiming my position as world's greatest mom. I may have a momentary twinge of self-pity when I don't receive the pampering I mistakenly believe every other mother is receiving while I'm loading the dishwasher but I know in my heart that the moments to savor are the ones that happen on every other day of the year not singled out as Mother's Day.
And I'm lucky enough to have a family that gives me plenty of those - enough for me to get through every second Sunday in May that doesn't go exactly as I would like it to.
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