SOMETIMES talking to my husband is incredibly infuriating, but never more so than when he doesn’t do exactly what I want.
Call me unreasonable but sometimes all I want is for him to read my mind, see the world exactly as I see it and then follow the script I’ve already written in my mind.
Am I asking too much?
Over breakfast a few days ago I told him sorrowfully: “I had a bad dream last night and I lay awake for ages afterwards.”
I obviously expected sympathy and soothing noises, and for him to put down his toast and listen intently as I told him all about it.
“Oh no,” he said through a half-chewed mouthful of brekkie, sending crumbs across the table.
Then he picked up a cereal box and started to read the ingredients. Out loud.
“It was horrible,” I said. “I was crossing a road and…”
He looked up.
“Was there a chicken?” he interrupted. “Or an egg?”
Then he laughed loudly, high-fived the baby and went back to reading the cereal box.
“No, there was no chicken or egg. It was actually really scary because…”
He looked up again.
“What was so scary about a chicken? Do you have a phobia of chickens you’ve never told me about?”
I took a deep breath. And persevered.
“No, I don’t have a phobia of chickens. There were no chickens. There were no eggs. There was just a busy road and I was walking across it and…”
This time Smithy sighed.
“Alright, alright. Is this about those brown boots you were looking at the other day? Okay, hint taken, I’ll buy them for you!”
I almost fell off my chair in shock, mainly because the conversation had nothing to do with the lovely brown boots either.
Instead I kept a straight face and said: “Yes, it’s about the brown boots. Maybe we could go and get them today?”
(As soon as Smithy went to brush his teeth I also high-fived the baby.)
Like I said, sometimes talking to my husband is incredibly infuriating.
But sometimes a bit of perseverance pays dividends.
Article first published in The Westmorland Gazette on November 19, 2015