“There’s something you do that really annoys me.”
We’d just finished dinner on a random Tuesday, and I was all ears.
My husband never complains. Like, never.
And he was about to drop a bomb.
“My laundry. You clean it and fold it. But then you never put it away. You put everyone else’s away. But you leave mine on the bed.”
Are you kidding me?
I totally laughed.
But then I thought a little bit more about it.
And (just like our master shower argument), I totally knew what he meant.
I wasn’t considering him.
He can do it himself, I often thought.
I do enough.
But then I thought about it a little more.
I take care of the kids, the house, the laundry, the dishes, everything. And he’s getting the leftovers. The scraps. And really, the crap.
Of course, the truth is I barely get the clothes folded each day, much less distributed to the correct room. And by the time I get to our room, I have a few seconds to throw my clothes in a drawer before a kid runs in, with a sword or open Sharpie, or about to body check the baby before I abort the mission and shuffle the kids back into the living room.
(Aaaaaand, if you really want to get technical, his drawers are also really disorganized and nothing’s folded right. So to put any clean clothes in the drawers, I have to just stuff them in.)
