#4 – I need permission to clean up after you??

Last night while Sparring Partner was preparing supper on the grill, I was helping out by either keeping the kids out of his way or saving my sanity by picking up after my husband in the kitchen. “What?! It’s no big deal if a little (raw) chicken juice drips onto the floor? Why are you such a harpy? Sheesh!”

I noticed three dish towels sitting next to the stove on the counter, and since they are supposed to hang on the stove door’s handle less than an arm’s length away, I reached for one in order to put it away.

Too late I realized that something was wrapped up in it. A plate. It hit the kitchen’s ceramic floor with a horrible splintering crash. Luckily both Doodicus and Aitch were on the other side of the room, but Aitch was quick to make a bee-line to investigate. Sparring Partner scooped her up while I brought over the broom and dust pan.

I asked him why the plate was wrapped up in the towel, and he answered that it was going to be used to put the bread rolls on. Fine. OK. Stupid, but whatever. It was an accident. But before I could even finish that simple thought, Sparring Partner angrily said that before I start moving things around in the kitchen I should ask him what is up with it, as in, does it have a purpose before I go about screwing up and shattering more dishes willy-nilly.

The self-deprecating and brief moment I held was gone. Because I didn’t confirm with him the purpose of his messes, I had somehow brought this upon myself – in so many words. That it was entirely my fault. Was he seriously trying to tell me that before I can wipe off the stove of splattered grease and food, I need to make sure he’s not saving it to flavor his bacon the following morning? Or before I can throw away the half-eaten banana that was started for Aitch that morning and now sprinkled with a handful of gnats, I have to make sure he’s not saving it for the world’s smallest banana cream pie? Or in the very rare occasion he actually hand washes a pan but leaves it sitting on the counter next to the sink, I need to make sure he’s not using it as a paper weight for his paycheck? And the insanity just spirals and spirals out of control…GAH!

After several terse words that may or may not have included “you’re out of your ever-lovin mind if you think I need permission from you to clean up your mess!”, we both understand that it was an accident that could have easily been avoided. We’re still crazy about each other. Some days the “crazy” isn’t so good.

To be fair, I need to remember to tell you the story of how I went freak-city on him over a couple of empty rolls of toilet paper.

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3 thoughts on “#4 – I need permission to clean up after you??”

  1. I don’t let my husband cook, and he rarely lets me clean. The only time I can clean is if he isn’t home. But yesterday I broke the rule, and went in to help clean, and also broke a plate.

    But what the heck is it about getting blamed for things? Everything is your fault. I hate that part of my husband. I crack up sometimes at the roundabout way things are my fault.

  2. I couldn’t help but giggle at “Or before I can throw away the half-eaten banana that was started for Aitch that morning and now sprinkled with a handful of gnats, I have to make sure he’s not saving it for the world’s smallest banana cream pie?” I don’t know why, but the picture in my head of the world’s smallest banana cream pie was really funny. (Can you tell that I’ve been up since 4 a.m. and had a bunch of caffeine?)

    I believe I would have followed up his statement with “Then I’m done cleaning in here. It’s all on you…and you don’t have to ask to clean up my messes. You can just do it.” Then I would have grabbed a handful of Halloween candy and left the room. (Actually, I grab a handful of Halloween candy everytime I leave the kitchen lately…)

  3. My husband should never be in the kitchen with me at the same time. I should never be in the kitchen when he’s cooking. It’s just an argument waiting to happen. It was a lovely day when we both accused each other of ruining our daughter’s birthday cake (the frosting was too cold to spread, and I was waiting for it to come to room temp).

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