The Soaked Dish

I wrote a post called “The Soaked Dish.”  Normally, I don’t let anyone see anything I write before I send it, but I had a nagging guilt about this one.  I asked my husband to read it first and tell me if it was ok to send.  It got DENIED!

I think he decided it was horrible when it got to the part where I pictured his face as a soaked dish not done, “bubbles popping from his ears.”  I think it was that part that he stopped reading and stated emphatically, “I hate it.” 

Yikes! 

I was having a bad day and I vented.  “How would you feel if I wrote a blog about how you are a witch if you don’t have 8 hours of sleep,” he asked.  “Been there, done that,” I responded.  I’ve said it all.  I’m not shy.  I lay it out there, the good and the bad.  “Should I write about my spare tire again,” I asked with a twinge of sarcasm.

“Look,” I went on, “you are wonderful and helpful, but you have such a busy life.  Things slip through the cracks and it isn’t your fault.  It’s ok.  It is the way it is.”

We ALL cannot do it ALL.  Nobody claims to be perfect.  Nobody is.

 And I am so grateful for everything that he does and how helpful he is to me and this family. 

One in a million.  With that said, I have been allowed to share “The Soaked Dish” 

Enjoy.

The Soaked Dish

You know when the smoke alarm starts running out of batteries, it starts chirping.  It starts off slow, a chirp every 45 minutes or so.  You tip toe around the house trying to find the direction of the chirp.  Is it coming through the baby monitor?  The kitchen?  Upstairs?  Downstairs?  Finally you give up or get distracted by a little person that needs your attention.  But, you hear it, every so often.  And then all of the sudden, you go downstairs a few days later to throw a load of laundry in and you hit it dead on.  CHIRP!  Ahhh, it is the basement one.  You know now, but you don’t change the battery, because that one isn’t your responsibility.  That one’s not mine, I think.  I’m not touching it.

You tell your husband and he hears you, so you think.  “Can you change the smoke alarm battery in the basement? I’m not tall enough.”

The chirps get closer together. 

Weeks go by; the chirps come at you every 3.25 minutes.  CHIRP!!!!!!!!

And with each chirp, your patience starts to wear down until the chirps become a resentment that festers and bothers you almost as bad as the soaked dish.  You know, the one not scrubbed but soaked overnight for you to take care of in the morning.  That one.  My friend tells me I need to coin my phrase, “a soaked dish is not a done dish.”  There. Coined.

We have so much going on as moms, how are we expected to take care of everything?  At some point, the tasks alone can drive you mad as a hatter until you are running around with an irritating tick.  Was the garbage taken out?  Tick.  Did the recyclables get taken to the curb?  Tick.  Did you call about the gutters?  Tick.  Eventually, you look at your husband and all you can see is the soaked dish as his face, bubbles popping from his ears.  Then you give a weak smile trying to forget the image of yourself dragging the recyclables to the curb in your bare feet and polka dot pajama pants that morning.  The grass is wet.  Your hair is in a messy knot of a bun.  And your neighbor drives by…

And then you think to yourself, I just can’t do everything.

And we can’t.

Mothers are extraordinary human beings.  We can birth babies like warriors and run a household like a business.  Nobody is running out of toilet paper, not on my watch. (A sound of a whip cracking).

But at the same time, we are human and we need help.  Our husbands or partners need a present role in our lives and need to be actively participating in SOME of those aggravating tasks.  Otherwise, they will be married to aggravating women.  Nobody wants that.  Truth be told, we don’t like ourselves like that. A scrubbed dish and a battery change will go a long way.  We just want a little help and we would love it if we didn’t have to ask sometimes.  That’s all.  It isn’t hard, I promise and I am not dogging my husband.  This isn’t about him.  This is about me.  We all just need a little understanding.  He does, I do, we do, and you do.  I guess we cannot let it fester.  I THINK we have to communicate.  Give and take.

My husband and I are actually in a wonderful place and I’m sure this is the first he is hearing about the chirping smoke alarm.  Actually, I know it.  After all, he isn’t the one who hears that infuriating noise all day long.  And, I’m sure I told him at a very distracting moment as he was slugging his work bag on the arm of the chair and 2 little rug rats were running full speed at him.  In any event, here is my communication… “Honey, the basement smoke alarm is chirping, can you change it?”