Peter was reading the newspaper on the computer when I came downstairs on Saturday morning. He did manage to look up and say “Good morning.” He was sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He looked quite content.
While he read, I hand-washed two sweaters, sorted the laundry and started the first load, watered the plants, gathered piles of winter clothes and coats to take to the cleaners and straightened up a bit from our dinner guests the night before.
Then I had some toast and coffee with him.
When I was cleaning up from breakfast, I noticed that there was a lot of water puddled on the stovetop. To mop it up, I had to remove the grates and the trays under the burners and make several trips to the sink with dripping sponges.
Now, I don’t mind doing the laundry, watering the plants etc. while Peter reads the paper. But there was something about all that water that got to me. So I said in my most obnoxious voice—“I don’t mind doing the laundry and watering the plants and getting the cleaning ready while you sit with the paper and your coffee, but don’t you think you could have at least cleaned up the water on the stove when the tea kettle boiled over?”
Yes, even our almost-perfect forty-five year marriage has it bad moments. But I immediately regretted speaking angrily to the man who bakes me great gluten-free bread, mows the lawn, listens to my endless stories about work and gave me two great sons among other things.
I decided that I should have kept my mouth shut. So I apologized, hugged him as hard as I could and said, “You are one awesome eighty-three year old.”