Sometimes I think that any accommodations, sacrifices, and compromises I make in my life, and in particular in my own home with my husband and daughter, are just part of being a wife and a mother, and are nothing special really; just part of the job. And then there are days like yesterday, and today, and a few incidents a few weeks back that cause me to reflect on the way I accept things, and the way I am viewed and treated in light of my accommodations, sacrifices and compromises.
I am very mindful of my husband’s workload these days and try to be accommodating and sympathetic towards him as a result. Though he does have a lot of time off (one of the perks of being a firefighter) I recognize that he also works on the firefighter union board and is currently studying for the captain’s exam that he will be writing in March. He has also been finishing the master bathroom. All of these things require time, effort, and produce a certain amount of stress for him. On the weekends, I take Avery so that he can do any union work or bathroom renovation stuff that he needs to do. He also sends Avery to the babysitter from 9am – 1pm on the days that he is off so that he has time to work and study. When I come home from work in the evenings, I am on full-time mommy duty to give him a break. I do the baths, the bedtimes, the naptimes etc. Okay, so I guess I am making my point here.
My husband has never really made a big deal, or done anything for that matter, for our wedding anniversary. He didn’t really even acknowledge my first Mother’s Day as a mother, which sort of disappointed me given the fact that not only did I give birth to, do most of the care for and breastfeed our daughter for the whole time leading up to that Mother’s Day (and beyond of course), but I also dragged my ass through months of somewhat crippling post-partum depression after Avery was born with minimal support and came through it stronger and better in the end (something I was quite proud of). To not have that acknowledged in any minor or major way sort of sucked.
This year for our fourth wedding anniversary on January 25th, I was expecting nothing. I felt that my general attitude that day of relative ambivalence and perhaps mild irritation would be a good sign to him that I was expecting the usual nothing and perhaps it was best to just get on with the day rather than dwell on anything relating to the event. He did not schedule our babysitter to take Avery for a few hours so we could go out for dinner, he did not get me flowers, or a card. I did not get him anything because, when I did so for our other anniversaries, I felt that he could have cared less given that he did not do anything for me.
So we had dinner at home (he made it) with a restless and cranky toddler and after dinner, I was presented with a cupcake (that was actually quite good) and scrawled on the box was a nice message about how much he loved me. And I thanked him and I felt that given that I was not expecting anything anyway, I should shut up and be happy that I have a husband who loves me, who is loyal, and who makes me dinner. And so it went.
Last night, my mother came over with some gifts for Avery and I. In the recent past, my mother and I have had a strained relationship. We are working through it, though it has been difficult because of her depression and the fact that I do not see her very often. I have however, come to the conclusion that I need my mother in my life. I need my mother to be involved in the life of my children; otherwise, a part of me feels like I am floundering. My mother bought me lots of very nice and much needed maternity clothes. Because of our budget, I have been trying to get by with a few maternity items paired with some bigger shirts that I already own. I have been feeling pretty schleppy as a result. My mother told me not to worry about what she spent; she just felt that someone should be getting me some nice and comfortable things to wear because I was not doing it myself.
She came over so that I could try on the clothes and have them to wear right away. While I was trying them on, my husband was in and out of the room doing something or other and playing with Avery. Every once in awhile I would try something on and ask him what he thought if he happened to be in the room. “Its fine.” is what he would say. He knows I have been feeling like a big fat marshmallow with arms and horrible frizzy hair lately and that is all he could say. He was pouting. He was pouting because it was taking me “too long” to try on the clothes and he wanted to wrap everything up, and have my mother leave so he could plop down on the couch and drink beer for the night. No he didn’t tell me this but it was pretty obvious. When my mum left, Avery was whining because she wanted my husband to sit on the floor and play with her. He was ignoring her demands so I dropped a pillow on the floor and sat down in a bit of a huff.
“What?” he asked
“She wants us to sit with her”
“I know, she’s been whining at me all day to sit on the ground with her”
All day? I thought. He picked her up from daycare at 1pm and then she napped from 2-4pm. Then I was home by 5.
I am so tired and so big now. I’ve got some kind of stupid insomnia that prevents me from getting more than 6 hours of sleep a night and I work all day. My feet are swollen. Before bed, I ask him to get out the bin of shoes I have stored in the basement so that I can have a comfortable pair to wear the next day.
“I’m getting blisters now from the swelling so I need my other shoes” I tell him. He tells me he will bring the box up from the basement later. I go to bed. When I get up this morning, there is no box. It is still buried under stuff in the basement. I stuff my fat feet into my blister shoes.
Over the weekend, he decides to clean out the basement and the garage and take the stuff to the dump. He piles everything into the van and takes it to the dump on Monday only to find that the dump is closed. The good news about this is that I find out, purely by accident when Avery drags out my old empty camera case, that he has put my dead grandfather’s vintage Minolta, along with every camera accessory known to man that was bequeathed to me into a garbage bag and was planning on taking it to the dump.
I ask him why he would throw that out. He tells me that it was just sitting in a box in the basement. I say, well gee honey, I don’t have a lot of time for hobbies anymore so I was storing it until I am able to use it again one day. Also, it has sentimental value. Oh yeah, and photography was kind of a hobby of mine until the bondage of motherhood claimed it. He tells me he will go through the bags the next day before he goes to the dump and make sure that he puts the camera and all of the accessories back.
He called me at work this afternoon and asked me if I needed anything.
“Did you remember to take my camera and stuff out of the garbage?” I ask him.
No, he did not. He threw out my fucking camera – the camera that my grandfather gave to me, and all of the really cool shit that came with it. How in the fuck did he forget something like that?
And this is where I am now. I got off the phone with him and almost started crying at my desk. I am heartbroken about the camera because it was smashed and destroyed this morning before we could call and see if they could retrieve it. I can’t even think about it because it hurts so much. But really, I am astounded at the fact that he didn’t even bother to remember something so important for me.
After everything I do. After everything I try to be considerate of.
I don’t even know what to say to him.
To me, this shows lack of fucking care and consideration. This isn’t forgetting to pick up some corn flakes for me at the grocery store.
I am pregnant, overworked, tired and stressed. I don’t do anything for myself. I feel fat and gross. My hair is horrible because I don’t have the time to straighten it when I wash it. If it weren’t for my mother, I would be looking extra shitty in my cheap, oversized crap clothes. I don’t go out for drinks when the girls from my mom group go because my husband has a hard time putting Avery to bed without me there. I don’t do anything and I have accepted this for so long that it has become the norm. When my husband mentioned that he was going out for beers after work on Thursday I flinched a little, but I didn’t say anything. When he tells me to stick to the budget he designed, I do. When I am at home with Avery all day by myself, the house is clean and dinner is on the table when he gets in. I ask for nothing. Not backrubs, not a day off and away by myself.
What the fuck am I doing wrong?
Labels: husband, Pregnancy
