Do You Have a License For That Brain?

I tried to pass a piece of advice along to my husband. The way he sometimes does to me. The way this works is that I listen to his perspective, sum it up, and store it away for future reference. Because I respect and value my husband and I know I sometimes need an outside view point.

He doesn’t tend to receive mine well. It’s almost as though he thinks I’m stupid, inept, couldn’t possibly be of any help, and cannot be worthy of respect. As though I were the enemy. What on earth made him choose to share a life with me and conceive and raise a child with me?

His problem today was that Mr. Buttons wanted attention and was starting to be a bit naughty because the child doesn’t know yet how to ask for attention. So I told my husband what was going on. They went outside to trim bushes. The husband overloaded the child with micromanaging instructions and neglected to encourage the child. They fought, and the husband came inside angry. After a little while, I suggested to the husband that he simply encourage the kid to try and praise him and not worry about how the bush turns out. Husband began to argue; I said I didn’t come out here to argue. I’m simply offering you advice the same way you help me sometimes. Husband was pouty and seemed to want to show off how good he was with the clippers. 

I believe God’s giving us the ability to conceive and raise children is not taken seriously enough. People argue about gun-control and abortion, but the greatest weapon of all is a brain.

Such a Time as This, Little Piggies

There’s a movie called About Time. It has Rachel McAdams (a superb actor) and Domhnall Gleeson (also superb). It has been a blessing of a movie to my family. Not that we let Mr. Buttons view it, but he has been indirectly blessed.

Things are slowly improving. My husband and I are revisiting old issues. God is introducing me to wonderful tools. Pride is dying its death stubbornly. 

I’m not stupid. And I won’t apologize for having feelings or for noticing the sullen pouting, the stiff pride, and the dissembling that is used against me. What’s the point in being married if we cannot be friends? Why would any man take a wife is she is to be treated as the enemy? An enemy appliance expected to perform duties sans emotion, passively, lifelessly, and pounded when her buttons are worn out. 

Where on earth is all this shoddy family programming coming from?

Well, the last week has been pleasant. Yard work, playing with the kid, reading the parts of Hermia and Theseus out loud at the table. Pretty good stuff. And the riddle of passive aggression everywhere, people who feed on your guilt, who excel at subterfuge and lying, and who have no idea what it means to feel and be vulnerable and empathetic. More a riddle than a trial lately, maybe.

Sorry I Behaved Like a Cold-Hearted Douchebag

That Pay It Forward movie is good. Helen Hunt always kicks ass.

So, anyway, the DH pouts. Constantly. I’m always worried about offending him and what revenge he will take. Usually he just ignores me for a while. I finally don’t care, which is progress. But what the heck kinda marriage is this? It’s like the impasse of poisoned-wine drinking on The Princess Bride. I mean, if he needs to tell me something, I wish he’d just spit it out. He’s LOADED with resentment. I must be a huge pain in the ass, but he can’t just break it to me.

I really think if he’d just talk, maybe share some emotions, he could get past it, maybe feel better. Maybe just tell me what he SEEMS to be saying – that I’m a pain in the ass. I could handle that better than the pouting.

I hate marriage and I don’t recommend it, especially if you are a passive aggressive male. If you like to pout, please don’t breed.