Today, I thought I would share an old story from 2002. Elder would have been not quite six years old. And I would say my husband and I were a lot younger, too, but we still argue like kids, so I don’t know that the statement has a valid point. Anyway, here you go…
This morning, my husband had trouble locating a pair of slacks. Not finding any in the closet, he trudged into the laundry room. Not finding any in the laundry room, he trudged back into the living room.
Spying him, understanding by his state of partial dress his predicament, I told him, “There should be some in the closet.”
“I looked,” he grumbled.
So, I followed him. And we found some. Smug as only a woman can be, I strutted back into the living room.
“You didn’t follow my system,” he complained, trailing after me, blaming me for his own mistakes like only a man can do.
“If you don’t like the way I put your clothes in your closet, you can put them there yourself,” I retorted.
“I do. And when I do, I have a system.”
“Well, if you did put your clothes in your closet, then you wouldn’t have to worry about me messing up your system. And I’ll worry about your system when you can tell me where I keep my socks.”
“But here’s my system -”
“I don’t care about your system -”
“Mom,” Elder interrupted. “Dad has two sisters.”
And that is why we don’t fight in front of the boys.
Not because of any high moral or psychological reason. But because we never finish without laughing.
We still finish, of course.
Just not without laughing.
The Grown-Up 