You know what the most terrible feeling is? It’s that feeling you get when someone says that you aren’t good enough for your husband. The feelings that crawls into you when someone thinks it’s funny to say “he should qualify for sainthood for putting up with you.” When they said things like “he’s a great guy! What did he do to deserve you!?” They don’t mean that in a ‘you’re great!’ kind of way either. I could go on.
I don’t mean to be so sensitive but it gets hurtful. It gets to me because of that little voice in the back of my head – I smother it a lot – that says that He is too good for me. That He could do so much better than me. Now, I know that this man not only chose me but chose to tell me that he chose me (talk about a tongue twister!) on a less than perfect day when I was looking and acting less than perfect. I know that my husband loves me and wouldn’t change a thing about our relationship but sometimes when he is being stellar and I’m being less than cooperative with life I get that niggling little voice creep in to poison my mood.
I know that I am not housewife material. I know that 9/10 I’m still a slob. I am that girl that kicks her shoes off and leaves them there. Where ever I take of my clothes is where they stay until laundry day. When I actually accomplish all the laundry at once, you bet your sweet ass that it stays in the basket until I can’t tell what’s clean and what’s dirty anymore. Before he moved in I never made the bed. What’s the point, I’m just going to get back in it again when I get back home. I used to eat cereal for dinner and pasta for breakfast. Shaving my legs was a special occasion, 3 times a year, kind of thing. I’d rather do something that makes me happy than clean. It makes me a slob and a less than perfect wife.
Here’s the thing though. These kinks, these little idiosyncrasies that are such a vital part of me, were already acknowledged and discussed a long time before we had considered spending our lives together. My BROTHERS even warned him that I was total bachelor with hippy tendencies. He knows me. He knows me and my habits almost better than I do. He can pretty much anticipate what I am going to do based on my mood and temper that day. He rarely gets me wrong. My husband didn’t marry me for my housekeeping skills. He married me, he says, because I make him happy, we laugh together, he wants to squish me when he sees me, we can joke and we can play. He didn’t marry me because he needed a house keeper. He gets that I would rather be reading. He understands that sometimes I want to wallow in my grossness until I feel better. He knows that I am not inherently dirty and disgusting but more chaotically organized and scatter brained. He told me it’s the artist in my soul. I flit from one thing to the next and don’t worry too much about my trail of destruction. I know I am a mess.
I know that he does the lionshare of the house work. He will make sure the dishes are in the dishwasher before I get home so that I can cook dinner. He makes sure that the laundry is done because he doesn’t like wrinkles. He will vacuum if he knows we are going to have company because he knows that vacuuming bothers my sinuses. He will walk behind my trail and pick up my shoes so that I don’t go mad looking for them in the morning. He throws all my shed skin (clothes) into the hamper because he doesn’t like to not wash everything on laundry day. It sounds like he’s babysitting, I know. He says that it’s the least he can do since he likes things one way I don’t really care.
In turn I make sure that our budget is done and rearranged when necessary. I make sure that his hair is taken care of with only the best products. I get the meal planning and the grocery shopping done. I make sure the dog makes it to her appointments and that the cats don’t get fleas or worms. I clean and scrub the bathroom and wipe down baseboards. I make sure that our home smells divine because smell is an important sense. I bake him his favorite goodies whenever we can afford it. I make sure that he stays happy. I bring him lunch at his second job when the car is working. I rearrange our tiny home so that he can get the best use out of it. I make sure our cars maintenance is scheduled and done before he can ask. I don’t give him a reason to stress out. I don’t nag him. I make him WANT to come home and be home. I make him happy.
It doesn’t seem like I do anything compared to him. I know. I think the same thing myself pretty regularly. He also tells me, pretty regularly, that this isn’t the case. So since I beat myself up pretty regularly by telling myself I don’t deserve my husband I have changed a couple of habits. I didn’t change because he asked me to or wanted me to. I changed because I didn’t want to burden him further.
I make the bed if I’m not going to be in it. I try to clean as I cook even if I’m bad at it. I take my shoes off right in front of the little box he has designated for my shoes. I stopped scattering my clothes and at least dump them all in one pile and a lot of times I even get them to the hamper. I even vacuum ever Saturday, which I know that’s maybe not as often as I should but I at least DO vacuum now. I try to make sure the clutter is gone before it ever really starts. I try. I try really hard.
I know he is a saint. I know that he does a WONDERFUL job of putting up with me. I know that I am not easy. I know that I sometimes insensitive and mean. I know my flaws better than anyone else. I know that Lenny has it rough with my many illnesses and crazy mood swings. I just wish that it wasn’t rubbed in my face so frequently. I already am hard on myself. My relationship really isn’t anyone’s business. Who got the shit end of the stick shouldn’t be what you are discussing! -_- I sometimes hate people.
I hit the husband lottery. I don’t know how. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a human being but im not going to question it so much that I sabotage myself. I am lucky and fortunate. I have someone who compliments me in many many ways! I am happy. He makes me happy!
Why can’t everyone just be happy ?