Writers wax eloquent about this topic.
Comedians garnish laughs and build their careers by bringing it to light.
Marriage counselors discuss it with struggling couples.
Where two or three married women are gathered,
the subject is likely to come up.
Pregnant women are given serious warnings
to watch for this behavior by their spouses.
Apparently, I’m not the only married woman who had this problem.
Durng pregnancy, midnight trips to the bathroom were grueling. I heaved myself up, trying not to bounce my husband off the bed. Because he faced a classroom of teenagers each morning, I left the hall light off. I felt my way down the hallway with my toes, testing one step at a time, so I didn’t lose balance if I stepped on a Lego or a ball. I left the bathroom light off, too.
More than one time I carefully lowered myself onto the seat in the dark and SPLASH! My awkward body made contact with the slippery narrow porcelain ridge then slid into the water. The winter temperature of toilet water in an unheated mobile home was frigid. Heaving a large body out of a small hole was frustrating. Trying to quietly clean up and simmer down in the dark took a lot of energy.
When my dear hubby learned to lower the lid, he forgot where the laundry hamper was placed.
As a newlywed, my friend, Julia, had described marriage to me. She said, (gushed) “I just love picking up his socks off the floor, because it means I have a husband to care for and love.” When reaching for those dirty Hanes, she would think thoughts of love and pray for him. Still single, I pined for stinky socks in my bedroom.
When I married the next year, I got the stinky socks. I copied her loving attitude for many years, but recently had to refresh my attitude.
Our hamper is outside the door of our bedroom. But, night after night, the clothes are dropped in a little pile on the floor inside the bedroom door. The distance from the pile on the floor to the hamper is 59 inches.
I measured it.
Once, to demonstrate to my husband his incompetence, I picked up his clothes, opened the door and deposited them in the hamper, teasing and counting aloud, “One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand.”
I timed it.
He laughed at my Academy Award winning performance, smiled, nodded, and agreed to comply. Score! It lasts a few days every few days.
Instead of forcing the issue, I was forced to look at my heart. I was concentrating on things he didn’t do. Little, tiny things. I was not celebrating the things he does. The big, amazing things.
My husband works 10-12 hour days and cooks dinner at least once a week. He runs errands and fixes things on the weekends. He makes sure I take my medication and brews my coffee every morning. He delivers a steaming mug to my bed or desk, or leaves a love note beside the coffee pot if I am still sleeping.
If he does so much for me, why am I so unwilling to do something so small for him?
I will only have to walk 59 inches.
I measured it.
It will only take two seconds.
I timed it.
Thirty years later, my friend Julia is still right.
Those dirty socks mean I have a husband to love.