Saturday morning, 9:20 am. The husband and the little one leave the house in order to do some shopping.
Until now, I have:
dressed the little one, read a book with her, made breakfast, had breakfast, cleaned the breakfast table, filled and started the dishwasher, written a shopping list for my husband, drawn a shopping list for the little one, collected and sorted two big bags of dirty laundry, collected various rubbish from the floor and watered the flowers on the balcony.
I have also heard that I am smart-aleck because I draw the attention to the fact that one shouldn’t put the cream-cheese knife in the jam (one shouldn’t, really!) and that actually I could water the tomatoes from time to time as well.
My husband has:
read the news while sitting on the toilet, read a bit in his book, filled in his personal details in an application form, watched a few youtube-clips with the little one, had breakfast and had a shower.
To be fair, he was also told not to put the cream-cheese knife in the jam and to please water the tomatoes.
On mornings like this I just struggle a bit with my good mood. And boy, good mood I had when I woke up. The little one slept until 7:30am! I slept until 6:30 without my usual two hours break during the night. The sky is blue, the air is cool and there is a slight breeze. We’ll have pumpkin soup for lunch and later we are invited for coffee and cake at our friends place. It’s all good.
But sometimes it is just so hard to ignore this little mean voice in your head that says “Why do I have to bend down to collect the rubbish which is not even mine? Why am I called smart-aleck at the breakfast table on a Saturday morning just because I don’t want the jam to get moldy? Why do I, with my big belly, still have to carry the watering can? Why do I actually have to clean the breakfast table although I was the one who made breakfast? Why, why, why…??” And when you listen to said mean little voice you suddenly envy the women in the 18th century who had never heard of emancipation and gender equality. Who didn’t get these crazy ideas that a Saturday morning could be used for something nicer than cleaning and washing. But then again, they didn’t have a coffee machine nor a dish washer or a washing machine, poor souls.
Sometimes I feel like a whining old woman. And I don’t like it. Really, I don’t. I am fully aware that I have the best husband in the world. I couldn’t imagine a better one, neither could I imagine a better father for my kids. I guess it is just this funny little difference between men and women. The difference that for most guys the comment “Uuuuh, the potatoes in the fridge are pretty moldy!” doesn’t automatically imply throwing them away. Or that it is completely normal to jump bare feet into mud puddles with your child (which is an awesome idea!) and then afterwards enter the flat with the little one, walk into the children’s room and show your completely muddy feet while asking your wife to take a picture of them (now it would be interesting who of the readers will actually notice what could be wrong with this situation). Or the fact that the flies in our flat are killed and then accurately placed on the window shelf. Or left on the floor or the table. A part of me loves my husband for these situations. Everyone needs a bit of absurdity and surprises in his life. But it is my relaxed, healthy, I-feel-like-a-student-again part. Unfortunately, that part doesn’t play a big role these days. Instead, I try to keep the flat and everything else clean, I try to prepare everything for the baby, I try to finish the last bits of work and instead of feeling healthy and fit I feel heavy and immobile with back pains, carpal canal syndrome and a kickboxer inside me. And I really don’t understand why I still have to get up to open the door although the person outside the door has a key.
What to do? Well, I decided to pick a big bunch of flowers in the garden. And I just watched the best husband in the world and the little one playing and cheering on the playground and my heart overflows with love. For the time being, the mean little voice is banned again. The Saturday morning can continue.