Am I the Mean Wife?

Image result for children and drunks tell you the truth

Hearing my husband talk to our dog hurt me. “Mama is mean,” he said and I am not sure if I was supposed to hear it or not -perhaps it doesn’t even matter. We have been arguing a lot lately. The moment I started to speak up, was the moment when our relationship took a drastic turn. He said it after eight beers, so perhaps he didn’t mean it.

I cannot -and don’t want to- eat my feeling away anymore. I am on a mission -healthwise and weightwise. I have lost 20 pounds so far. The scale showed 295 lbs today in the morning and I felt pride. I am changing!

My husband came home at 2:30 pm, after a long week. I know he is tired, he deserves to relax. He got a beer out of the fridge, and when I heard the can-popping-noise I couldn’t’ believe it. I decided to take a break from my work, left my home office and sat down with him for a while. The beer in the afternoon bothered me and so I mentioned it and voila…the argument was on.

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Sometimes I feel we are playing games and I am tired of it. I want a discussion, a conversation, a mind feeding dialogue, but all I get is a wall. His defense mechanism is always on high alert. He answers without thinking, often interrupts me when I speak. As long as I am the GOOD WIFE all is fine. The moment I have a different opinion it seems to bug him senseless.

Mama is mean, and I wonder if he is right. Am I mean? Should I choose my words and wordings wiser? Should I try to be more diplomatic and not be willing to rock the boat at any given time?

Why am I speaking up? Because I don’t want to retire like this. I am not a maid, not just the GOOD WIFE.

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I started to envision us a few years from now. We will be retired, and I see myself jumping around like a monkey taking care of the house and all our needs, while my husband will continue to play silly little games on his cell phone.

I want US to retire equally. I can see us working hand in hand taking care of the house, the yard and helping each other out. I see him cutting a rose in the garden for my breakfast tray. (I need to stop watching chick-flicks.)

He hasn’t made breakfast for me in 20 years. He brings the trash out, goes shopping every Saturday and that’s it. That’s his contribution to our life -beside the money he provided for us, which by the way I do to.

He has never given the dogs a bath, has never done the laundry, has never surprised me with a lunch or dinner that wasn’t ordered. He started doing the dishes lately once or twice a week, but somehow the rest of the kitchen doesn’t seem to be his problem.

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Every time he gets up after dinner, and puts his plate in the sink I scream inside -or shake my head in disbelief. How dare you? I want to shout but I don’t. I try to picture myself doing the same the other way around, and wonder how it must feel. Does it give you satisfaction when somebody has to clean up after you? Is it a power thing that I just cannot understand or is it much simpler? Did I let it happen for too long?

Well, today I am mean and it bugs me. I don’t want to be mean. I want to be kind, gentle, understanding. (OH Goodness, stop streaming THE WALTONS Lady.) 

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I am changing and not all of my changed will be liked at first. Perhaps I should change less drastic? Here we go again. I am looking at how to adjust -again.



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