My husband, you know the guy that used to have frizzy, auburn hair and a 29 inch waist and complain every time I mentioned that we had to clean up the house because he spent every Saturday of his childhood being forced to make a path through his room by a very stressed out single dad that would eventually throw in the towel and ask, “Who wants to go get a soda?” You know him, right?
Because I’m not so sure I know him anymore.
The Clay I married hated to tidy up, wash dishes, do laundry, clean a bathroom or mop. He would do it, eventually, but most of the time, he’d step around things, drop his clothes in a pile next to the hamper, pile up the dishes and was unsure what I used to clean the floors. One time he took a gallon of bleach and sloshed it all over the bathroom floor and then spent the next couple of days airing out the fumes from our house and he was wearing new navy blue sneakers at the time, the bleach splashes turned them pink. I had so much fun making fun of him wearing those shoes.
That same bleach sloshing Clay came stomping upstairs tonight to find me lying on my bed with my computer on my lap avoiding all my housework. With a hard stare and his hands on his hips he calmly said, “Listen, if you go down and pick up the clothes and clear off the table then you can go to bed.” I looked at him for a moment to make sure those words were coming from his mouth and before I could interject he added, “You should wait until later tomorrow to mop. I cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen and put away everything on the counter.”
I looked at him with concern, “When did you turn into…me? You know, I will get it done. I always do. And why are you telling me how to clean?”
To make matters worse, he just stood there, staring at me until I finally got up and went downstairs to pick up the clothes and clean off the table. I’d like my husband to give me back my personality, because I’m the only one that gets to tell people when and how to clean around here.