One morning, I strolled downstairs and spotted a pair of socks lying lifeless in front of the couch. And by lifeless, I mean they were devoid of feet. Seriously, socks shouldn’t just be lounging around unless they’re actually being worn. Beside the couch, I noticed remnants of a chalupa and an enormous soda. Mild sauce had somehow found its way onto our linen armrest, while ESPN blared in the background. My frustration began to bubble.
Oh, no he didn’t.
There was a trail of shredded lettuce leading back to the kitchen, which I followed to a Taco Bell bag sitting just a foot away from the trash can. That brown bag was the last straw. I tossed it in the trash with a dramatic flair and braced myself for a showdown. Whether he worked a night shift or not, my husband was about to hear it.
As I heard the toilet flush down the hall, my husband emerged, looking worn out and still in his scrubs.
“Sorry, babe. My shift ran really late. I was going to clean that up,” he said.
I paused for a moment to assess the situation. He looked exhausted, and honestly, I could empathize.
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “You should get some rest.”
He needed a break, and I believed he would do better next time.
Every couple eventually faces a pivotal choice: to separate or to weave their lives together. When they decide to unite, a world of revelations comes crashing in. Cohabiting can be a wild ride of bonding and discovery, and it was for us.
Ten years ago, shortly after we tied the knot, I began to realize my husband was a product of his upbringing, specifically a life where his mother did everything for him.
At first, I didn’t realize this was the core issue. I thought he simply didn’t respect me. Each sock on the floor and unwashed dish felt like a personal affront. Who leaves a PB&J mess on the counter after making lunch? A total jerk, that’s who.
He would toss his clothes next to the laundry basket, which drove me insane because the basket was literally right there. He’d make coffee, leaving a sticky counter behind, which made my blood pressure rise. Our relationship was suffering — it was like dying a slow death from a thousand paper cuts.
Then came the weekend when my mother-in-law visited.
What an eye-opener! I watched my husband toss his socks on the floor, and she promptly picked them up. When he finished dinner, she rushed to grab his plate and clean it. If he made a PB&J, she cleaned up the mess before he even took a bite.
As I witnessed my mother-in-law scurrying around tidying up after her grown son, I had an epiphany: My husband was conditioned to be a helpless mess for 18 years. His actions, while inconsiderate, weren’t done out of malice; he simply didn’t know any better.
It was time to address this issue head-on. When the weekend concluded, I said goodbye to my mother-in-law and asked my husband to sit with me.
“I used to wonder why you left your dishes everywhere. I felt like I was expected to clean up after you, like a maid service. But after seeing your mom take care of you all weekend, I understand where that expectation came from. She may have done all of this for you, but I am not your mom, and I will not be your maid.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Do you get what I’m saying?” I asked.
He sheepishly smiled. “Is this about that PB&J I left out last week?”
His humor surprised me, and we both laughed. Honestly, it’s a bit funny when you remind a grown man that you won’t be his personal assistant for life. But I walked away wondering if my message truly resonated, or if this would be a recurring battle throughout our marriage.
The truth? It’s been a mix of both. We both have our flaws. Yet, just the other day, when our son opened a granola bar and left the wrapper on the floor, my husband stepped in:
“Son, pick that up. Your mother is not a maid service.”
Progress!
We’re going to be just fine.
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