Monday, August 29, 2005

Time Travel

...and one more thing regarding the post below. This constant battle for time? My husband doesn't seem to have it. Here's his To Do List:

- Go to work
- Come home and eat dinner that Andrea makes
- Watch some sort of sci-fi series, motoring special or biography on famous men (who had wives at home with to-do lists like mine)
- Somewhere in between these goals, do little fix it projects around the house and have fun driving car

Now I'm not saying James isn't a great husband. He's kind and loving. He emails each day from work. He thinks I'm sexy... and funny... and tells me so on a daily basis. He is an amazing father. He has invented "The head rub", "The toe hanging" "The grow juice" and "The head bonk". He puts little Pipsqueak to bed each night and teaches Dominic how to dress, undress and take a squirty bath (a shower). Just tonite, I heard Dominic inform him "Papa, you have a penis... that makes you a boy like me. Mommy has a hoo-hoo, that makes her a girl".

My point: Despite all his amazing qualities, because he makes the money, somehow he seems to have a little more time at the end of the day to "run to Home Depot" or "Pick up new tires." Part of this is my fault... I am a flexible person that understands the need for space, so I give it to him. But also, I need to start demanding my own space. And time.

After a small blowout the night of our anniversary involving my son's bloody nose and James' need to wash his car while Nick's dried up blood was still on my face, I braced myself for the inevitable sparks that would fly when I put my time contract in front of him. I dug in my heels as I prepared for the "James Logic" vs. "Andrea's Emotion" battle. Fearful of plates being thrown (though that would save me time on dishes) I was not looking forward to the fight.

I started tentatively, then kept reminding myself that I work as hard as him for less respect, and I deserve more. If I don't ask for it, who will! Last time I checked there was no union for Non Working Moms/Writers. Before I knew it, Norma Ray had inhabited my body. In my raging defense, I might have stood on my coffee table (though it's still in one piece, so that is doubtful) ... "For every computer gaming night out you have, I want a girls night! For every 5 hours you spend on Saturday doing yard work, I want five hours on Sunday to do my housecleaning! For every last minute errand to Fry's, Lowes, and anything involving a tire shop within a half mile radius, I want that time to do my errands, too! Like going to Starbucks! And... stuff! And I don't ever want you to take me literally when I say I don't need an anniversary gift! You're being groomed to be this huge project manager? Delegate the gift buying to Cecelia and get Project Wife completed on schedule!"

I shut my eyes and waited for my almighty corporate computer geek to blow. His response? "Sounds completely reasonable. You deserve it."

Then he flipped Star Trek back on.

(* Picture: My pragmatic husband teaching Nick how to roll pizza. I don't know what makes me more misty eyed. The father/son bonding, or the memories of Diet Coke)

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