CONFESSION: Thinks I Wont Tell My Husband

CONFESSION: Thinks I Wont Tell My Husband

 

My husband and I are poles apart. In the world of astrology, we’re each other’s opposite. But in my world, we’re as similar as we are different. Though our shared core beliefs ground us, we operate from two very different places…and it shows. So depending on which way the winds blowing, our differing ways are either a source of conflict or amusement. Add parenting to the mix and OY VEY! We’re a side show. We both want the freedom to do things our way and in an effort to avoid unnecessary criticism, scrutiny, or good old fashion nagging, there’s are a lot of I didn’t hear that and I’m looking away moments from both of us.  

So on Saturday when we crossed paths with a panicked mom frantically searching for her lost child, my husband wasted no time mentioning I’d be dead meat if I lost his Dylan, to which I said it’s bound to happen. Everyone loses sight of their kids when shopping at some point. (Right? Kids are crazy!) I assured him that when it does happen, I’ll keep the story to myself. He was cool with that until I told him that when HE loses Dylan, he better freaking tell me. His response? “NO WAY!” Chances are he won’t be able to contain such a juicy experience but it made me think about all the things that I refuse forget to tell my husband. Then I laughed to myself.

Like when I tell him that I let Dylan sample my Reeses McFlurry, I leave out specifics… like how much I give him. I’m not above bribing, and if I have to walk two dogs with a kid in heels after work, I’m going to make the process as painless as possible. But my secret treat disbursement isn’t always out of necessity. I bake from scratch and use my knowledge of what’s in the recipe as justification for giving Dylan a whole cookie…or two. Dylan loves them, calls them “keekees,” and begs me for them. A sugar related parenting fail is too easy when it’s fueled by flattery. Why yes, I did whip those up.

And I don’t dare tell my husband the circus that ensues when I make dinner because that’s when Dylan really abuses my indiscretions. If it were up to Dylan, I wouldn’t spend a minute chopping vegetables or prepping meat. Something about me standing in the kitchen and doing my own thing brings out the needy, evil toddler in him. He tugs on my legs, cries, hits cupboards and demands my attention. So when I’m cooking and Dylan’s off banging his sliding closet doors, or pulling on the blinds in the living room, I let it slide. My logic? Running a muck will cease once dinners done so let’s Nike this bad boy and just do it (as quickly as possible).

So fine, my husband doesn’t want to tell me when/if he loses sight of Dylan? I can live with that. Clearly I have my own tidbits of intel that don’t make it to the surface of our conversations. And it’s okay. No really, it’s okay. I came clean last night and my husband shrugged as if the confessional were no big deal. Which really just means that I can expect a series of creatively worded questions aimed to exploit my inability to lie in the future. I just hope when that day comes, we’re both in a I didn’t hear that kind of mood.

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