Tonight, my husband almost became a single man, or maybe a dead man.
We were discussing the grocery list and the fact that he hasn’t been juicing. Juicing in our household has nothing to do with steroids and everything to do with a machine that chews and grinds the fruits and vegetables we put in it. This machine (a cheapo Wal-Mart model) then spits out the juice from the vegetables and fruit and we drink it. Great way to get a variety of nutrients we wouldn’t dream of eating (um, beets and turnips for example). He lamented the fact that he doesn’t have a juicing buddy anymore since I quit juicing. I had stopped juicing in the first trimester because just the thought of juice was enough to send me running to the bathroom to vomit. I haven’t started back up yet, either. So, he misses having his motivational buddy he says.
He asked why I haven’t been purchasing juicing produce, and I reminded him he was with me at the grocery store when we last went shopping and that he had plenty of opportunity to purchase the produce himself, not to mention he helped make the list before we went. His response is the part that had the pregnant irrational side of me up in arms and ready to screech at my husband.
My husband: “But, I delegate things like that to you, and you’re not doing a very good job.”
Well, I haven’t called a divorce lawyer, I won’t be having this baby in jail, and he’s completely unharmed. But man, I don’t think I will ever have to explain again that I am not his employee and he is not my supervisor. Not ever. At least I hope not. I’m not sure my blood vessels can take that sort of pressure again. I also reminded him that yes, he does have to leave the house daily and go to work while I stay home, but that’s really all he has to do. I handle the bills, the budget, the meal planning and preparation, the cleaning, the child’s activities and school, and anything else that happens to pop up in addition to my work as a freelance writer. At the end of my tirade I got a kiss and an apology.
As for my irrational pregnant self and I, we are still breathing deeply and focusing on all the wonderful things he does as he has already drifted off to sleep and his snoring has commenced. I’m reminding myself of such things as when he cleans the kitchen after I have spent hours messing it up while cooking or when he washes and dries the clothes twice a week. He also cleans off my car when it snows. He hauls Eva around on his shoulder and acts like he can’t find her (which, of course, she loves). He vacuums when my belly hurts and I can’t. He reaches all the things I can’t without complaint. Most of all, he thinks Eva and I are the best two people to ever enter his life and he tells me every chance he gets (you know, a couple times a year when he has had one glass too many of a big boy beverage) that he doesn’t have any idea what his life would be like without me, but he’s sure he wouldn’t be nearly so happy.
Now, if he would just learn to think before he speaks, he would be pretty much perfect…except for the smells that emanate from him. I don’t think there’ll be any method or device or medication or thing ever invented to fix that problem.