Category Archives: Marriage.

Being Kind Is Not For The Weak.

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Yesterday I read a piece that one of my very favorite writers, Glennon Melton of Momastery, posted on her Facebook page.

I don’t typically love wordy, scholarly-type pieces, but I loved the SHIT out of this. Perhaps it says something about me that I considered this article “scholarly,” but I’ll own that. Part of why I love social media is that other people can filter through publications like the New York Times or The Atlantic and pick out interesting articles for me. Facebook is kind of like my personal concierge of reading material. So thank you, everyone who takes the time to read through various articles and then post it for people like me who don’t have time to peruse or chop vegetables because I’m too busy looking for the green blanket or finding batteries for the magic elephant that makes the baby sleep. I don’t do much without a toddler attached to my leg.

This is 34.

The article says that happily married couples share one common denominator: they’re kind to each other. I immediately commented, because I’m a big nerd.

Screenshot_2014-07-09-09-23-17-1 Kindness. It’s so simple. But it’s so, so hard. I know this because I read that article that Glennon posted while riding in a car with screaming, tired children. I don’t think Robbie and I ever had a problem being kind to each other before we procreated. We are well-matched, enjoy each other’s company and call each other out on unacceptable behavior. I think we used to think the other person was hilarious and smart and hot and all of the things you think about someone when you’re madly in love with them. All was relatively smooth, easy, even — for a solid 5 years. And then we became parents.

All of the sudden, nothing he did was right. Nothing he said was right. There were times when I was convinced I married some asshole and I made a huge mistake and I’m sure he thought the same of me. Some of it was hormonal, some of it was just the reality of operating on very little sleep under very stressful conditions.

I saw every flaw, in both of us. It was hard to be kind. But we persisted, and we fought through that valley, came out on the other side and did it all over again two more times. It takes work and practice to be kind when you don’t want to be. When I’m trying to talk to him and kids are running and screaming, I get mad at them all, Robbie included. I want to yell at everyone, SHUT UP AND ACT RIGHT. Sometimes I do.

When Robbie forgets to take out the garbage, it takes work for me to be kind. I really just want to yell, WHAT THE HELL, MAN. THE KITCHEN SMELLS LIKE ASS AND IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT. Sometimes I do.

This is why they say kids are hard on a marriage. Children add a level of stress that is unmatched, and you just have to figure out how to deal with it and still be kind to the person who helped you create them.

Last week we took a family trip to the beach, and I was reminded once again that a vacation with small children is not a vacation at all — it is a TRIP and it is EXHAUSTING. We were on our way down I-10 and I was holding Robbie’s hand. No one needed anything. No one was crying. I let my thoughts drift, thinking how nice it was that we were all together and everyone was happy, when we heard a rush of air and realized that Asher had somehow opened the car door with his foot and was working on getting out of his carseat. “Lemme out,” he said.

Oh my God. These children.

I found myself yelling at Robbie, fuming at him for not PULLING THE CAR OVER RIGHT THIS MINUTE so I could tighten Asher’s carseat straps and put the child lock on. But we were on a bridge, and he was worried about me getting hit by a semi, so he kept going while I clung to Asher’s feet (to make sure he didn’t do it again) and yelled at him to stay put.

He responded by repeating, “Lemme out.”

Robbie drove to the nearest exit and pulled over, indignant over why I was so angry at him. He was not the one who caused the problem. He was just trying to keep us all safe. I wasn’t thinking about my own safety; I was only concerned about my child. The stress of the situation made me lash out at my partner, and I was not kind. I imagine this is what most couples go through, children or not. Life is stressful. Kids open car doors with their feet. Weird things happen.

It takes effort, real work, to be kind to the person that you love the most. I hope that when the kids are older and have a better understanding of things like gravity and the possibility of drowning, Robbie and I will have more time to hold hands and let our minds wander. It’s a good thing our kids are cute and my husband is hilarious, smart, and hot. Otherwise, I’m not sure I could handle any of them.

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The Ridiculous Summer of 2014.

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This seems to be a recurring theme in my life, but I’ll go ahead with it anyway: this week was very long and very hard. I guess most of them are, right?

This week, Asher threw his shoe at me while I was driving. Kid’s got good aim; it hit me squarely in the head. Both boys made me so mad (in a separate event) that I pulled the van over, took the toys away that they were playing with and dumped them in a parking lot. I’m sure it made another child’s day.

This week I yelled. A lot.

This week, the next-door neighbor’s dog got out and terrorized my children such that they were unable to play in their own front yard for an entire day. We also got caught in a torrential downpour not once, but thrice.

This week was a blur of crying, yelling, “I’m sorry’s,” meals, cleanup, laundry and Band-Aids — times six. It’s been six days since Robbie last had a day off from work. Every day for the past six days I woke up, got sucked into the vortex, Robbie went to work and came back home to find that I had emerged from the vortex in a shell-shocked state.

This summer is crazy. Oh, what? You don’t know what I mean? Okay … let’s see. How can I rephrase? It’s cray cray up in this bitch. It’s off the chain berserk, RIGHT HERE, IN MY HOUSE, and I am handling all of it by myself because I wanted three children and I wanted to stay home with them and no, I didn’t want to be a Nurse or a Dermatologist or even an Esthetician which my parents strongly suggested and I wish they’d suggested more forcefully. And no, my husband didn’t want to get a degree in Law or Medicine or something fancy because he can sell the shit out of anything and would rather do that instead.

So here we are, nearly 9 years married without much to show for it except a lot more wrinkles and a lot more fingers and toes to pry loose or kiss, depending on the situation.

He sure knows how to make his mother forget he hell he just put her through ...

Equal parts charming and mischievous.

So, about this summer.

I knew it would be crazy, so I don’t feel as jarred by it as I might have … but wow. It’s still jarring. It’s nonstop action from the moment I get up until they are all tucked into their beds at night; I’m suntanned and exhausted and living on an extremely acidic diet comprised mainly of chips and salsa. My husband is working really hard and not enough people are buying cars or warranties so he looks as tired as I feel when he gets home. I have a feeling that when he looks at me at the end of the day he wonders what the hell happened to make me look like that, but he just says, “You look tired.”

We are running on a hamster wheel that would feel monotonous but for the fact that it’s simply never EVER boring because not one person who lives in this house is boring. And when I find myself painting Maverick’s big toenails and telling him, “Here is some paint that you can peel off whenever you want to — no more peeling paint off the house or the back door” I have to wonder if other people are going through anything like this.

Motherhood can be incredibly lonely for that reason. Wondering if you’re the only one. It can feel very much like you’re on an island and you don’t know what you’re doing and you have to just deal, but it seems like everyone else is dealing fine so you can’t speak up and say, “Does anyone else find it crazy up in this bitch?!”

Well, I find it crazy, so you’re never the only one. But sometimes I feel like parenting should be a two-person team against the children, but the other half of my team isn’t home very much. Three against one is kind of tiring. I mean, clearly I’m winning — but it takes a lot of effort.

These are my food groups. (That's salsa in the red cup.)

These are my food groups. (That’s salsa in the red cup.)

This morning, I was in the vortex of breakfast-making when I overheard Maverick saying “Daddy, do you have to work today?” And Robbie said yes, but he will be off tomorrow. Maverick and Asher chattered about how we’re going to a birthday party this afternoon and they wished he could come too. And then I heard my husband, that tired man I ignore a lot, the man I kiss hello and goodbye out of habit and sometimes half pay attention to, talking to them.

He said, “I wish I could go, too. But I have to go to work to earn money. I have to go to work because I want you to have everything.” And I literally almost started bawling into their smoothies, and totally want to cry right now just thinking about it. I know what he meant by “everything.” It’s not a house full of commercialized crap, necessarily. It’s the good things, the important things. He works so hard, and I do too, so that our kids can have “everything.”

He gets embarrassed when I write about him, but I’m telling you … if it weren’t for that man, in all his weird, charming, infuriating ways … I would be locked up in a loony bin somewhere. It would be crazy up in another, padded-walled bitch for me.

My teammate believes in me. So I’m not actually alone, and I suppose that means I can dig deep and stay on this ride called The Ridiculous Summer of 2014. Or TRS for short, which just so happens to be interchangeable with That’s Really Stupid.

It Was Fine! How Was Yours?

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Sometime later today, Robbie is going to ask “How was your day?” And here is what I’ll want to say.

Asher sneezed repeatedly with a mouthful of eggs at breakfast.

I found the baby quietly playing with a poop pellet she found. She was batting it around on the floor. How did this happen? I DON’T KNOW.

The only part of the play kitchen set that the boys want to play with is the fake knives.

I went to Spin class only because I wanted a break. Yes, that’s right. I looked forward to 60 minutes of physical torture in a dark room.

Maverick continues to refer to “Ninjas” as “Aninjas.” He says “We’re pretending to be aninjas,” or, “I want to watch Teenage Mutant Aninja Turtles.” I don’t correct him. Just like I don’t correct him when he asks me if I’m wearing a “booby cast.” I guess he means a bra. Is this a problem? I really don’t know. I also don’t make him read or write, it’s been a full month since Kindergarten graduation and I haven’t made him think once. I just let him run maniacally around and mispronounce the name of ladies undergarments. I think it builds character.

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Meet baby Maverick, circa 2008.

But what will I actually say when he asks me? I’ll say, “It was fine, how was yours?” I will not ask him if he thinks something is wrong with our children, or me. I will not ask if I’m a lazy mother. I don’t really want to know the answer to those questions, and if we have all made it to the end of the day in once piece … then it was a good day.

He Has No Idea.

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I have lost count of how many times I or one of my friends have said, “My husband has NO IDEA what it’s like to stay home with the kids.”

Before, when I was working full-time and pregnant, then working full-time and balancing motherhood, and then working full-time while pregnant with a toddler at home, I ranted a lot about how my husband “HAS NO IDEA.” And to be fair, he didn’t.

My husband doesn’t really know what it’s like to do what I do, just like I don’t know what it’s like to do what he does. Our occupations are mysterious and confounding to each other; he doesn’t know where the peanut butter or extra towels are kept, and the baby is always in pajamas when she stays home with Daddy. I’m almost certain it’s because he doesn’t know how to dress her. She’s also always missing a sock when I get home, the air smells like farts and chicken fingers, and the boys are drenched with sweat because they’ve all been wrestling.

I used to get upset with him because he didn’t take care of the kids the way I would have — I mean, if I was home, there would be no fart smell or chicken fingers, and certainly no wrestling. But after I quit my job and starting caring for them 24/7, I was so happy to get a break that I didn’t really care what went on while I was gone. Things have now leveled out so that I am just flat-out grateful to him for providing for us, and he is flat-out grateful to me for everything that I do … even though we both realize he isn’t even sure what all that entails, which is probably the biggest reason why he’s grateful that I’m doing it.

But … he has no idea.

He has no idea how much coffee I drink.

He has no idea what it’s like to run errands with three kids.

He has no idea what it’s like to have to change your tampon in front of an audience.

He has no idea how lonely and overwhelming it can be on really bad days when the kids are being terrible and I need an extra pair of hands.

He has no idea how hard it is to watch your body change three different times and have little control over it.

He has no idea how happy he makes me. He can’t possibly, because I’ve never been able to put it into words.

He has no idea how grateful I am to him for continuing to love me even though with each passing year he has seen more of my imperfections.

He has no idea how thankful I am to be in a front-row seat for our kid’s lives, never missing a day, good or bad, and I’m in that seat because he put me there.

He has no idea how hard it can be to be me, but he also has no idea how amazing it is.

So to my husband, who has NO IDEA what it’s like to stay home with the kids … thank you. I wager that we don’t say thank you enough to the people who love us the most and yet have put up with the most asinine behavior we’re capable of.

Mom Suit Monday.

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Yesterday I tried on my new bathing suit so Robbie could see it.

He studied me for what seemed like forever before he said, and I quote, “Hmmm.”

I then explained why THAT is why women get frustrated with men. If I walk out in a bathing suit, whether I look God-awful or not-too-awful, you absolutely cannot say “Hmmm.” You must find one thing that you like about what you see, and say that thing out loud. For example, “I like your shoulders in that bathing suit. You look nice.”

ONLY THEN MAY YOU SAY “Hmmm.”

He said the reason why he didn’t say anything is because he wasn’t thinking anything. How can this be?! I will never understand. Just like he will never understand how I think about five different things all at the same time. It must be nice to look at someone wearing a dresskini and think absolutely nothing. How can someone not think anything when faced with that?! IT’S CALLED A DRESSKINI, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

I submit that he is lying.

He wanted to know why I can’t just wear a bikini. My facial expression must have led him to follow up with, “You could always get one of those see-through cover up thingies.” And you know, he might be onto something. Is it better to wear a total mom suit, or just rock it in a bikini with some sort of cover up? It’s not like I’m going to look like a fitness model either way, and trying to use the bathroom with a one-piece on really sucks.

As I stood there in gripped in spandex ruffles, I told him I’m trying to be practical. As far as wrangling kids in the pool, I don’t think a bikini’s going to work. Someone, somewhere, would see something they would never be able to un-see. But if he takes me on a vacation … or sends me to a magical spa where a thousand tiny hands can beat the cellulite off me … or to a surgeon to make miracles happen … I will consider it.

Until then, a mom suit it is. And possibly a wide-brimmed hat.

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Marriage Is Hard Work.

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It’s Tuesday, and I just want to get right to it. Marriage is very hard work.

I’m not afraid of a little hard work. I planted a flower bed all by myself recently without gardening gloves because I couldn’t find them. They were packed away in a box somewhere, and I considered what it would do to my hands and decided I was fine with it. I planted my zinnias. So that is my very middle-class American example of how I can roll up my sleeves and really “get after it” as my Alabama-born Daddy would say. This has served me well in my current job of butt wiping and house keeping. I can’t change a tire, but I can plant a flower without gardening gloves. Watch. Out.
Unfortunately, all of my gumption tends to get sucked up, quite literally, in the vacuum. I don’t have a ton of energy left over after doing all the stuff I do in a day, and by the time Robbie gets home I can barely mutter a hello. This bothers me because I love my husband and I would prefer to greet him with a hot meal and a lively, not muttered, hello. 
I dislike the feeling of not putting myself 100% into everything that I care about even though I realize that it is not possible to be awesome at everything all at the same time. I seem to suffer not from a perfectionist problem, but a want-to-do-it-all-and-rock-it problem. I have read self-help books aplenty and I just can’t help the fact that I like to get after almost everything in life. I will never accept that I can’t be an awesome mom and and awesome wife in the same day. 
Maybe I just need to find the perfect combination of stimulants.
Now, I have let plenty of things slide, but not without them keeping me awake at night. I have literally laid in my bed thinking about how dirty the inside of my van is, which is a nice compliment to my husband, who wouldn’t care or notice if there were McDonald’s bags piled a mile high.

Other things that have kept me up at night:
1. The knowledge that I need our green couches and a few rugs professionally cleaned.
2. The knowledge that I have an insane amount of cellulite.
3. The knowledge of the big blue veins on the backs of my knees.
4. Wondering where the gnats are coming from.
5. Wondering if Robbie ignored me because he was tired, or because of the veins on the backs of my knees?
6. Deciding it was definitely the veins, or maybe that I never make him food when he gets home which is why he always eats cold cereal.
7. Worry over Robbie’s health and diet.
8. Worry that I will die alone, with blue legs.
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I guarantee you, the entire above list will be news to my husband when he reads this — which is a whole other post in itself. Men simply have no idea what we go through.
So, to circle back to what I was saying, my vacuum and my ferret-like children get the majority of my energy during the day. I do not enjoy being too exhausted to make Robbie a sandwich or think of interesting things to say to him when he gets home at 8:30 at night. Then I start down a spiral of feeling like we are doomed. 
(And all the feminists mutter angrily, “Why can’t he make his own damn sandwich?!” Well … he CAN. I would just like to do it.)
There he is.

He is in a similar predicament of tiredness from shouldering the burden of providing for his family. When it comes down to it we are just two exhausted people who love each other but we are just too tired to think of anything to say or do to demonstrate it, so we sit on the couch and space out in tandem and I drink like there is no tomorrow because of the shell-shock I feel when my day is done.

Robbie is exempt from the shell-shock except on days when he is home. At the beginning of dinner last Sunday night, before the blessing had even been said, Asher fell head first out of his chair and busted his nose … which we didn’t realize until blood was running down his face and threatened to drip onto his plate of quinoa and fish. I kind of half-heartedly wiped at it with my napkin and said, “So … this is happening,” as I silently counted the hours until I could pour myself a glass of wine.

Having a serious talk.

While the rational side of me understands that this is just how it is right now, and not for the rest of my life, the irrational side gets really upset at my husband for not bringing home flowers or showering me with the adoration I rightly deserve, or PERKING UP AND BEING FUN SO I WILL PERK UP AND BE FUN. Nevermind that I don’t shower him with adoration like I should, or bring him gifts or be fun all the time or even ask him intelligent questions. I am just as guilty of putting him on the back burner, it’s just less acceptable to me because I am the Queen. I’m sure you understand.

All parents of young children go through this season of utter exhaustion, where everything is an ordeal that leaves you too tired to conversate with the adult sitting next to you by the end of the day. Or you find yourself in a situation that would normally be enjoyable, like a festival, but you can’t enjoy it, really, because you’re too busy keeping track of all of your children. Then you run into someone you know and you can’t hold a normal conversation because the stress of getting everyone dressed to attend said festival melted your brain.
Everything in your life gets blurred over and fuzzy from lack of rest and mental focus. Robbie and I would have to think hard to remember the last time we went on a date. We can’t remember to call the insurance company. We can’t remember what day it is or what we were talking about before we were interrupted. We can’t remember any damn thing. Sometimes I wonder if we will even remember this period of our lives. 
I’m leaning towards no.

So this is why people say that kids are hard on a marriage, because they are. Just when you think you’re working as hard as you possibly can to keep all of these different people happy and healthy and alive, along with keeping food in the house and the bathrooms clean, you turn around and realize that you look like a hot mess and you have totally forgotten about your husband, but it’s okay because he’s forgotten about you too. But then you get mad at him about it, because that is what Queens do.
Marriage. Is. Work.
But, just like everything else we toil over, it is worth what we pour into it. I have read that and heard it a thousand times over, but when I’m actually experiencing it … it’s not easy to push through. But so far, we keep pushing through and arriving victoriously on the other side of whatever mountain stood in our way. And even though we are TIRED, and he doesn’t take care of himself, and I worry too much, and I’m hormonally imbalanced, at the end of the day we perfectly imperfectly love the hell out of each other. I don’t know why we work so well, but I am so glad that we do.
I love that man. Sometimes that love is enough, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, what marriage is made of isn’t just love, it’s dirt and sweat and forgiveness. Thank God I married someone who understands that, even though he is terrible at verbalizing it.
Also, as it turns out, we’ve been herding cats since the beginning of our relationship. We are experts at this. Here’s proof from our first foray into herding.

Circa 2005, our cat Phoebe after a bath.

The One Where I Get Mushy.

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I appreciate this man in the Ninja Turtle mask so, so much. Somewhere right now, he’s cringing and thinking to himself, “CAN SHE PLEASE STOP POSTING THIS PICTURE EVERYWHERE?!” And the answer is no. I can’t. 


He doesn’t criticize. He supports. He doesn’t rub it in when I mess up. He encourages me. He gives me big hugs. He tells me I did great today, and will do even better tomorrow. Those words mean a lot after a long day of ridiculousness, filled with regret over losing my temper after I resolved not to, picking up tiny bits of food off the floor for the upteenth time, and digging deep for serenity when children are screaming. 

He knows I’m in the trenches right now and he’s my biggest cheerleader. Just knowing that he has complete faith in me helps me find faith in myself.

He doesn’t do grand gestures, poetry or candles — I knew he was a man’s man when I married him — but I think a part of me still hoped I’d be able to tap into his inner Shakespeare. I haven’t seen that happen yet, but what I have seen are a million different ways that he tells me he loves me, every single day. After spending almost a third of my life with this person, I’m finally hearing and seeing what he has been trying to tell and show me all this time … and for that, I am thankful.

Opposites Attract.

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The longer Husband and I are in this situation — otherwise known as our life — together, the more we mutually appreciate each other. I certainly wouldn’t want to be financially supporting a family of five. That’s a lot of pressure. And I’m certain he wouldn’t want to be responsible for clipping 30 tiny fingernails and 30 tiny toenails every week and making sure no one in the family gets constipated.

This morning I woke up feeling like I wasn’t ready to face anyone or deal with anything and that feeling persisted until I kind of freaked out and yelled a bunch of horrible things so Husband offered to take over for the morning. He stepped in and cooked breakfast, brushed kid’s teeth, dressed them, etc. I kept hearing him say “Good LORD” and “Whew!” under his breath, and it cracked. me. up.

He seemed happy to be leaving the house to go to work this morning. One thing I am forever grateful for is the fact that I’m married to a laid-back man who says things like “try to take it easy today!” and never, ever asks why dinner isn’t ready. Because HE KNOWS WHY.

My guys.

Saturday.

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Here is the man who gives me so much writing material. 

The picture above was taken last weekend at my high school reunion. I found out later that he was *told by his boss he couldn’t go, and if he did, he‘d have to find a new job. Husband said, “It would be a lot easier for me to find a new job than to find a new wife.” 

So wise.

I love this man. I’m having trouble being nice to him lately because I’m a hormonal mess. But … I LOVE HIM. One day I’ll be back to normal and that will be a welcome change. Right now I would love to snatch the weave out of someone’s head, just for sport. I feel rage-y. 

*For the record, his boss was joking. Husband still has a job. But I appreciate what he did for me, and I’ll pay him back for it one day.

  

Men Are Not Stupid.

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I feel it is my duty to share important discoveries, big and small, with you when I come upon them. Things that may make your life a tiny bit easier or happier. That’s what girlfriends do for each other, right? 

Today I need to tell you something of VITAL importance. I feel like I’m spreading the gospel, and I hope I’m not pontificating, but I am passionate about women learning how to speak up for themselves. I know there are men out there who read this blog (including my own Husband) and to those men I say, PAY ATTENTION TO THIS. You can learn a lot from me.

I got involved in a discussion this week with another mom who shared a complaint I am very familiar with — her husband always sleeps through the baby waking, so she gets up, feeds the baby, and cares for their 3-year-old. When he finally gets up, he seems confused as to why she is so tired. And of course, she wants to punch him in the face.

My thoughts on the matter were that it was simply time for a little role reversal. Role reversal has done wonderful things for my partnership with Husband. One day a week he has the kids for 12+ hours by himself, and boy … that has been an eye-opener. Overall it has helped us develop an appreciation for each other and a thankfulness for what we get to do each day. After a whole day away from the kids, I am grateful that I get to care for them most of the time. And Husband, after a full day with them, is so very glad he gets to leave the house and go to work with other adults. And poop alone.

Anyway, another woman in the conversation shared that her husband never changed one diaper, cleaned, cooked, or did anything to help her around the house — and they had FIVE children. Her assumption seemed to be that he refused to help because men are stupid. Now … who is the stupid one in that situation? I would say definitely the woman who allowed her husband to sit his ass on the couch while she tended to five children by herself. He must be pretty smart to have figured out a way to avoid doing jack shit and still being allowed to share the bed with her, right? He may be careless or oblivious, yes — but not stupid.

I am tired of hearing people say that men are bumbling Neanderthals. I know I’m not married to a stupid man. He just needs me to tell him what I need from him. Because he loves me, he tries his best to do what I ask. And because I love him, I would never ask something of him that was unfair.

I have taken on some extra projects lately that have me BUSY, and so he has agreed to take on some of the household responsibilities. Our mornings were super chaotic and he pissed me off every single day because it seemed like while he was willing to help, he honestly didn’t know what to do. And so he did nothing. He sat down with his coffee, and watched me do it all. I was frustrated that he couldn’t just see what needed to be done. HE IS A GROWN MAN! CAN’T HE SEE??!?!?!?

Well … no. He couldn’t. And not because he is dumb, it’s because his brain is wired in a way I will never understand. He is wired to see other things, like how the internet connection is spotty so he needs to rework the wiring to make it faster. That is the kind of stuff he sees, while looking over the screaming baby’s head.

So, I helped him help me. I made a chore list for ONE, which is silly because he can’t read yet, and a chore list for Husband. Part of Husband’s job is to make sure ONE does his list. 

  


I know my lists are ghetto — most moms copy fancy charts from Pinterest and laminate them, and that must mean they love their families more than I do — but I don’t have time for that crap. So permanent marker on the back side of a tablet is what we’ve got.

It’s a small change, but it made a BIG difference. Once everyone knew what was expected of them, and had a list to reference, our mornings became … dare I say … easy. And enjoyable. We laugh and have breakfast together and I actually remember to eat.

I feel like women in general have a hard time telling their men what they need from them. No, ladies, they honestly DON’T KNOW. They want to know, but they don’t know how to ask. Sometimes I think men are kind of like the blind and deaf in that they need help communicating, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. You have to tell them what you need from them, even if it’s in list form. If they love you — and I know that they do — they will try.  

It has made such a difference in my household. With Husband’s help, I can face things like this enormous laundry pile without feeling like I need to curl into a ball and cry.