Feeling Put Upon

The Saturday of Labor Day weekend, Olivia woke up around 8am. She then talked at me for the next hour and a half while I lay dosing, trying to ignore her need to get up and go.

I finally dragged my lazy carcass out of bed at 9:30 but I certainly didn’t want to. The day went downhill from there.

I’d mentioned to Tom earlier in the week that I was going to paint the bathroom.

That morning he asked me what color. I told him. Then he asked me what color I wanted to paint the front door. See, I’d mentioned that to him earlier in the week too.

I hemmed and hawed on answering that one because I didn’t really care to hear his opinion on my thoughts. Dude has an opinion on everything. EVERYTHING. And see, the thing is, his opinions are always so strong. It’s never, eh, I don’t mind that. It’s always a sure and confidents yes or no.

It’s infuriating.

Except that morning all his opinions did was make me weepy.

I did tell him that it wasn’t him, it was me. I didn’t know why but my emotions were very close to the surface and those emotions were all sunshine and roses. They were teary and sad and angry emotions.

We made it to my mom’s house without any actual tears falling, though things were cloudy on the way.

Tom called me on our way to town to tell me that he didn’t actually care what color I chose to paint the front door.

That was nice.

See, once upon a time, very early in our marriage, I painted our laundry room a bright apple green.

He hated it. He hated it so much that he can’t imagine me NOT picking another horrible color for any part of our house.

But guess what? I learned from that. I don’t go all willy-nilly with my paint colors anymore. See my previous post about the nice cool white I picked for the bathroom.

So give the green a freaking rest, is what I’m saying. It’s been at least fifteen years since I did that. I’m not a bright eyed 35 year old with apples in her eyes and confidence in her choices anymore.

Whew, it feels good to get that out.

We made it to Menards and headed to the paint department. Let me tell you, the Saturday of Labor Day weekend is not the time to go to Menards. When we arrived, there were three carts available for use by the front door. The rest were scattered about the store, in use by the seventy million other customers.

My mom pointed down an aisle in the paint section and said, “The Rustoleum is at the end.”

I started down the aisle but couldn’t see the stupid Rustoleum and stopped halfway. I didn’t quite stomp my foot but I did give out a plaintive, “Where am I going?”

Yes, it was incredibly whiny. Yes, I hated myself so much in that moment. But I was so tired and felt so put upon by the entire world.

My girls are so amazing. They both just rolled with my stupid whiny mood. They laughed at me as I behaved like a brat. They didn’t take my bitchiness personally (I hope) and they just let me wallow in my mood.

We went to lunch, which helped because hello Applebee’s chicken fajita roll and strawberry lemonade.

Walmart was the worst but by then I’d expected just that and so I made my way through the store with as much stoicism as I could and finally, at home, I was done.

There was no paint prep that Saturday. There was very little laundry done. I did not vacuum.

Tom left to go…somewhere that afternoon. Alyssa went out with N and so Liv and I had noodles for dinner. It was comforting and just what we needed.

The next day, I was back to fine. I felt god enough, emotionally and physically to paint the bathroom and do laundry and cook so I’m calling that weekend a wash.

Balance

Once upon a time, the balance of work in our house was pretty even. I help with homework and Tom packs lunches and often heats up dinner.

Lately, though, since the girls were home for 22 weeks, I’d taken over a lot of the evening work because he’d been home with them (read: Olivia) all day every day. I get that mental taxation of that.

However, now the girls are back to school.

Which means he’s home all day, every day, alone. He can get started on his eBay listings/packing/whatever he wants to do without having to deal with breakfast, lunch, snacks and whatever else Olivia might need throughout the day.

So yeah, his life is pretty freaking great right now.

The other night, after we did homework for a half hour, then went to Gram’s house and then got home at 7:00, I asked if lunches were packed.

Alyssa had packed hers but…O’s was not packed.

I packed her lunch, I packed my lunch. I gave her her 8pm meds, I got her a snack before bed. I brushed her teeth, I bandaged her fingers, which are bloodied on a daily basis because…Olivia.

The next day, before I even got home, Tom had packed O’s lunch, which was…nice.

The day after that was the 2 hour homework session.

He suggested I go rest before we tackled homework.

No. Not a good idea. Must get started because the sooner we start, the sooner we can be done. It’s a good thig I made that call because if I’d ‘rested’ before homework that night, we’d have been finishing at 8, she’d have been having dinner at 8:15 and no shower would have happened and guys, Olivia is 13, she needs her showers.

As we were doing homework, he was toodling around, taking pictures, cleaning crap to list, just going about his day.

He did announce in the middle of all this that he’d packed her lunch.

“Thank you,” I said because heaven forbid I don’t sing his praises whenever he ‘helps’ me around the house.

Damn, I’m such a bitch.

Alas, homework continues to frustrate.

Tom left to go to my mom’s. He came back and continued about his business. It was at least 6:45 by this point. It never once occurred to him to offer to warm some food for Olivia so she could eat as soon as she was finished with homework.

We finished homework at 7:10 that evening. As she completed the last few multiplication problems, I heated some chicken and noodles and mashed potatoes.

At one point in all this, Tom declared that he was going to go out to the garden and pick some tomatoes. He stopped at the backdoor to make eye contact with me and declare he was picking these for ‘my lunch.’ Then he waited, because I was obviously supposed to thank him for going out to pick tomatoes because he was doing it for me.

OMG.

Are you kidding me?

I was in homework hell and I still had to make sure Liv ate dinner AND took a shower and he wanted gratitude from me because he was going to pick tomatoes FOR MY LUNCH.

I might have lost my mind for minute.

I think if I’d murdered him then and there, I could have claimed temporary insanity.

Yes, he still lives and breathes. But, because I’m a petty bitch, I did NOT take any of those freaking tomatoes in my lunch the next day. I was so pissed about the whole thing that I didn’t bother to pack anything for my lunch the next day.

That’ll show him.

One Headlight

We keep a running list of items needed. You empty the box of Cheezits? Put it on the list that’s always on the microwave with seven pens, six of which don’t write. If you’re me, you will always have to try all seven pens to fine the ONE the works. But you won’t bother to throw away the six that don’t work. I mean, who do you think you are?

One recent Saturday, I went to get the grocery list and found Tom’s debit card on top of it with an item (or two?) listed. A stop at Auto Zone was going to be necessary to pick up this particular item.

He’d written “headlight bulbs, set of two, for 2012 Chevy Equinox.”

I was immediately disgruntled.

Wait. I know. Let me acknowledge right here that I KNOW I’m a brat. I also know that I’m spoiled.

But seriously, what the hell is the point of having a HUSBAND if said husband won’t go and fetch these sorts of things himself? So what if these particular bulbs were for MY car? Also so what if I didn’t even know I had a headlight out. I rarely drive after dark, so I had no idea how long I’d been driving with one headlight. Sue me.

So yes, since Tom was at the post office (as he is often on Saturday mornings) I had a mini tantrum over having to stop at Auto Zone and get bulbs for my car.

By the time he got home, which was right before the girls and I were leaving to go buy groceries…and stop at Auto Zone, I thought I’d gotten my little snit out of the way. I blandly said I’d seen the addition to the list and he joked that at least he wasn’t expecting me to go to Walmart and try and find the right bulbs myself, that at Auto Zone you just tell them what you need and they go get them for you. I may have rolled my eyes like a big old baby. I can’t be sure, I wasn’t looking in a mirror.

Apparently my ambivalence toward purchasing those bulbs came through, though, because we’d been on the road for maybe three miles (not long enough to cross the state line into Indiana) when Tom called.

Alyssa answered my phone because, hello, I was driving. She spoke briefly with her father.

When she hung up she said, “Dad said you don’t have to go to Auto Zone. He’s going to go to an antique store later today or tomorrow so he can stop and get the bulbs himself.”

Huh.

Well.

Never let it be said that I’m not contrary as hell.

Now that he’d said I didn’t need to stop at Auto Zone, guess who was going to Auto Zone.

My mom laughed at my bratty behavior and said that I was lucky to have Tom.

Yes, Mother, I know.

I really do know that. But I also STILL wish he’d just gotten the stupid bulbs, changed them and told me about it after. Sure, the trip into Auto Zone took less than five minutes but now I have to spend about five more minutes feeling bad for being a spoiled brat.

AND! And I had to go home and apologize to my husband for it. That’s just annoying.

Imposter

In my head, I am never good enough.

One recent Thursday, I got home from work around 5pm. Alyssa and Tom had been there all day, just hanging out. Olivia was with my mom and wouldn’t be home until at least 7pm.

I’d planned to put on my new roller skates as soon as I got home and work on breaking them in.

Instead, I plopped down on the couch next to Alyssa for an hour.

Tom mentioned pizza for dinner.

He and Alyssa bickered over who was going to make it. He ended up going in to the kitchen and I heard him chopping onions. At that point, I assumed he was getting ready to put the pizza in the oven.

At 7:00, Alyssa went into the kitchen and exclaimed, “Dad! I thought you were making the pizza!”

He declared that no, he wasn’t making it. He’d chopped the onions but it was her job to put the pizzas together and get them in the oven.

I felt so defeated by this whole thing. By the time the stupid oven heated and the pizza cooked, it wouldn’t be done until at least 7:30. I decided then and there I was NOT eating that late.

I know. I’m only punishing myself. But it was so frustrating. If I’d known he was doing some kind of power play with Alyssa, I’d have gone out and put the stupid pizzas in the oven myself.

I went up and laid in my bed with a fan blowing on me. It would have been lovely if only I hadn’t been feeling sorry for myself. I was hungry and yet…I knew I wasn’t going to eat.

Olivia called me from town to let me know she and Gram had just dropped the boys off at their house and they’d be home in about a half hour.

I went back downstairs and put a can of soup in my bag for lunch at work the next day. I couldn’t bring myself to cut up a cucumber or make a salad. It frustrates me so much that I am so self-defeating.

Olivia got home, we all welcomed her as if she’d been gone for weeks instead of 36 hours.

The pizza got done just as she was getting home so she was just in time to eat a couple of pieces even though she’d had McD’s an hour before.

While I sat at the table with the girls as they ate their pizza, Tom brought three pieces of pizza to the table for me.

I glared at the pizza and asked him, “Where’s yours?”

See, let’s back up a bit. He’s been eating salad for dinner every night for a week. NO WAY IN HELL was I going to sit there and eat THREE pieces of pizza while he stuffed lettuce in his face. Nope.

I let the pizza sit there while O finished eating her own. Tom did end up getting one piece of pizza for himself. While he ate it, I got up and put the leftover pizza away, including the three pieces he’d set out for me. Full disclosure: I ate several mushrooms off one of the pieces he’d give me. So I didn’t completely abstain from dinner that night.

As I was putting everything away, he came over and started washing the dishes.

I could tell he was pissed. When I asked him why he was mad he said, “You didn’t eat, there’s no need for you to have to do the dishes.”

And okay, that’s very nice. But…damn it, it made me feel terrible.

Why?

Why does it matter to him if I eat pizza or not? I’m FAT. I’m gross. I can skip a meal or twenty and not be anywhere near starvation.

I often feel like nothing I do is good enough. I can’t skip enough meals to be thin enough. I can’t be gentle enough to be a good mother.

I don’t exercise enough. I don’t model good choices for my girls. I don’t keep our house clean enough.

Let’s be clear that this is all me. No one in my house says anything to make me feel this way. It’s all my own issues and my own sense of not being nearly good enough. Everyone THINKS I’m good enough but that’s because I’m faking it just enough to make it in their eyes.

When I tucked O into bed that night she said, “Was it better while I was gone?”

Oh. Oh no, not even close. I told her I didn’t sleep well the night before because she wasn’t there. I told her life is NEVER better when she’s not there.

Now, let me be clear, I do not think that my husband’s and children’s lives would be better without me. As bitchy as I sometimes get, as awful as I often am, I never imagine that they’d be better off without me.

They love me. They love me despite that fact that I can’t seem to love myself. So Imma stick around even though I often don’t feel like I deserve any of them.