TGIF? ugh.

I’m usually a big fan of Friday … Hey, at least it’s the end of the workweek. But is it really?

Weekends are the time when its most likely my wife and I will get into a nasty, say I’m perfect or die kind of argument. It’s usually over nothing. Me not picking up my socks right away. Her spending 5 hours in the bedroom or bathroom (”I’ll be out in a minute!”) while I’m left to wrangle the rugrats.

For two people so often on the edge of hating each other, extra time together isn’t necessarily a good thing. It just gives me more opportunities to get annoyed and say something thoughtless or crass, which is all the trigger my wife needs usually to start chronicling my myriad marital failures.

Now I love getting the extra time to spend with my children. They are a constant joy, and we have fun together, whether playing outside on the swingset, or just snuggling on the couch watching SpongeBob. But it just rubs me raw that the wife spends these days in bed so often, zoned out to gruesome forensic documentaries, or seeing to the important duties of a well-maintained facebook page.

I’m not saying she ought to be bouncing around, cleaning the house. I’ve accepted that as a rarity … it’s not something worth fighting her over. I’d just like her to join us out in the yard, or in front of the TV, to present at least the illusion of a traditional family situation.

I know it’s the bias of my upbringing that causes much of our marital strife. My mom and dad had a reliable division of labor. Dad worked government jobs from 8 to 5 during the week (mom was a teacher). On the weekends, she cleaned the house, dad mowed the lawn, fixed the car, or whatever outdoor labor caught his eye. I watched cartoons until Soul Train came on, and then tromped into the woods to continue work on the rotted-pine fortifications of my hideout.

But for Jennifer, the weekend begins her two days of rest. Though little housework is visible from the five days previous, the simple act of shepherding our two-year-old (usually from the couch or bed), earns, in her mind, two days of uninterrupted goofing off. Three hour trips to the bathroom (I’ll be out in a second, dammit!) are the norm. Forget weekend outings. By the time she’s bathed, made up, and whatever else, we’re usually so late for our destination it’s not worth going.

Zoos close at a certain hour; so do parks, and the lake stops being fun for a kid after sundown. But to rush my wife’s preparation for going out is to “ruin her whole day.” And once that has happened, it’s all fair game. I become a bad husband (I’ll never satisfy you), a horrible father (you act like being with them is a chore), and a wifebeater (it’s only a matter of time).

All I want is for us to spend some time together: all four of us. But, to her, it’s just another way that The Man keeps keeping her down.

~ by mrbitterness on May 16, 2008.