As soon as I get home from work, I get my 3-year-old daughter’s shoes off, have her try the potty and then settle her into playing quietly in her room. I clean up the kitchen, unloading and reloading the dishwasher with last night’s supper dishes, sweep the floor and feed the cats. I call my daughter back from the potty and have her help me pick up the living room. We take a rag to the dinner table to get the spilled milk stains off. I check the laundry and see which loads I need to run.
Finally, I start dinner.
What does my husband do upon arriving home, only 15 minutes after me? He says, "Hello," sits on the couch and flips on the news. He then proceeds to play games on his phone until supper.
Yep, this is my life. I have accepted this.
But what I just can’t abide is when my husband decides to “help.” For example, last night, he made a big show of bringing his plate and silverware to the kitchen after dinner and encouraged my daughter to do the same. He was beaming from ear to ear, like he was dad of the freakin’ year. “C’mon, honey, help Mommy!”
My daughter dutifully brought her plate in as well … and set it on the counter next to his. Would it have killed him to open up the frickin’ dishwasher door and actually put the dishes inside?
Afterward, they watched cartoons together while I did all the cleaning, prepped some papers for work the next day and finished up the laundry. Finally, it was bedtime. I got my daughter in her bath, out of the bath, into her pajamas and into her bed. At last, when I finally slid into bed next to my husband, he says, “Don’t you think I did a good job with our daughter tonight? I showed her how to clear the table.”
I was stupefied. I was literally speechless. Really? He wanted me to praise him for that?
Yes, when my husband actually does something that’s typically in my wheelhouse, he expects me to treat him like he just won the lottery or saved a drowning kitten.
“Uh, oh, yeah, good work,” I managed to squeak out. He settled down into bed with a pleased smile on his face.
I was so shocked that I, of course, had to tell all my girlfriends at work about it over lunch. As I told my unbelievable story, I couldn’t believe my eyes: All of my friends were nodding in total recognition.
Apparently, this inflated sense of accomplishment at the smallest amount of effort is a pretty typical husband thing.
“Oh sure,” the school secretary said. “Last weekend, I spent all weekend cleaning for when his mother was going to come and stay with us, and cooked a three-course meal. When it snowed, he went out and shoveled the walk, and waltzed in like he was Superman or something. I asked him if he wanted a gold star for his chore chart or a cookie or something. He didn’t think that was very funny.”
Apparently, this inflated sense of accomplishment at the smallest amount of effort is a pretty typical husband thing. Each of my friends had a story to share — and a steady supply of eye-rolls, as well.
“Well,” I said, “what are we supposed to do?”
Secretaries always have the best advice. “Just bite your tongue,” she said. “And just give them the compliment. Otherwise, they’ll never do jack crap around the house. Think about it like when you’re trying to get your kid to potty train. Remember how you celebrate each little piddle? Do that.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Seriously,” she said.
So, the next time my husband managed to get our daughter’s pajamas on while I did literally everything else, I gave him what he wanted. “Good job, hon! That was super, super helpful!”
And I pressed my lips together to prevent the rest of the words on my tongue from spilling out. Congrats! You did the bare freaking minimum!
I couldn’t help but say, “Do you want a cookie?”
“Ooh, we have cookies?” he said.
Yep. This is my life.
