Cody could have complained – he had every right to.
I left my leftover lunch in the Tupperware.
In my lunch bag.
For three days.
Yuck.
Background: My mom would often clean up after me because she’s a saint and I’ve always been kind of lazy, and any time anything made me really super uncomfortable (like, gross, smelly food), someone else (Dad?) would take care of it. It’s an uncomfortable truth. I know where the problem comes from. I know where it leads. I do it any way. That, my friends, is what we call a character flaw.
But, when confronted with my mess, Cody didn’t say a thing. I mean, while I was taking a shower, I heard him gag, but that was it. When I was out of the shower, I saw a clean dish and we proceeded as normal. I felt the shame. I thanked him for cleaning it – again – and he just kind of shrugged. I hated myself and promised not to let it get to this point ever again. I’ll let you know if I follow through.
Last week, Cody and I decided we’d take a fairly spontaneous trip down to Arkansas to visit family during the upcoming weekend. On Thursday morning, Cody proclaimed, “I have a goal. I am going to make sure the house is clean before we leave tomorrow so that we can come back to a more appealing home.” I completely agreed – especially with the part where he said “I”.
But I found that, when I came home on Thursday afternoon, I started working on Cody’s goal. I dropped in a load of laundry right away (one of the only chores I prefer, probably because my dad made it a bonding activity for us, instead of something I should scorn). Then, I started washing a load of dishes. I performed these two chores on repeat until the clothes were folded and almost all the dishes were dried.
He didn’t come home right after work like I thought he would. He did send a text around 7:30pm to ask how things were going at home, which I thought was a little strange, since he should have been home around this time. Reminder, if you need one: he was the one who said he was going to clean the house. At 9pm, the house was almost clean, but not because he was home, and definitely not because he told me to.
I love the man so much that his desire for a clean house motivated me to do it as an act of service to show him my love. I knew that he’d really appreciate me packing our bags and cleaning up the house, especially because he knows I’d seriously rather be doing other things.
So he came home a little after midnight to a clean home, gave me a big hug in the morning, and asked if I was mad at him. I answered him honestly, and the answer honestly surprised me.
No, I’m not. I found I meant it, too.
No? Ania, this would have made you so mad before. True.
But this is before he cleaned up my messes and didn’t say a word about it.
It’s like we have our own language now. We don’t have to say anything, but I imagine the conversation runs in its silent current as follows:
Cody: My wife is a slob. But I love her. I know she really hates doing this stuff, and I value a less-smelly house (apparently more than she does) so I’ll clean it up.
This is so gross. But I love her…
Ania (hiding, as Cody is cleaning): Ugh. Why do I do this. Why don’t I just take care of it right away? I feel shame. …Why isn’t he yelling at me? Or at least making me feel bad?
I guess he doesn’t make me feel bad for the same reason I’m not mad at him for not showing up to his own idea of a clean house (haha). I didn’t want to ruin the trip – he’s usually the main cleaner of the house, so it wouldn’t be fair to get mad at him during a rare time he’s out enjoying himself with his colleagues.
Just like I know I have my character flaws, I also know that my husband loves me with extraordinary grace – he gives me love (forgiveness, mercy, goodness..) when I least think I deserve it. I guess you can say I have decided it’s time for me to grow up and start doing the same.