Sometimes, a shoe is just a shoe

So we made it back fro Florida in one piece – barely.* I thought it couldn’t get any worse with our trip down, but I was wrong.

Although the flight had been delayed before we even left for the airport, allowing us to wait at home, and we were surrounded by much nicer people during the trip (shout out to the Orlando airport staff, you’re security line devoted entirely to people traveling with small children is genius and has earned you a place in heaven), we were delayed thirty minutes once we boarded, and then were told we would be sitting ON THE PLANE for another ninety minutes due to dangerously bad weather in New Jersey. Did you hear that story about the people who were kept waiting, in their plane, on the tarmac for eight hours? I imagined myself in that situation with the kids and decided I definitely would have wound up on the evening news and in the custody of an Air Marshall (or as my sister in-law so sagely put it, wind up leading a passenger revolt ala Liz Lemon).

Thankfully, the delay only wound up being a little more than an hour, during which the girls played their Nintendo DS's and LM jumped on the blessedly empty seat next to me. We were given a shorter route home(apparently they can do that) and we landed shortly after eleven. The terminal looked like an airport in Calcutta, all crying babies, angry mobs screaming at counters and sleeping people and trash on the floor. Don’t even get me started on the bathrooms. An odor combined of cigarette smoke and open sewage smacked you in the face upon entry and finding a functioning toilet , or toilet paper, was a challenge. Seeing what all these poor suckers waiting for their flights out had to deal with, I was grateful we even made it home.

We staggered in the door after midnight; after I wrangled our bags to curbside pick up and we were collected by H. Yes, Lighting McQueen was checked, and don’t you know he was the last damn bag I was waiting for, a full ten minutes after my and the girls’ suitcases were spit out onto the conveyor belt. We all fell into bed and immediately asleep, so I did not get to see what shape the house was in after H’s week of bachelorhood until the next morning.

Turns out, when left to his own devices, H is not a total pig. While I knew he would fed himself reasonably well (produce was actually purchased and consumed), I was a little afraid the floors would be a tornado of dog hair and the sink would be full of moldy dishes. I suppose, one factor in this scenario not occurring is H’s fear of a violent death. I’m not sure if bodily harm weren’t a concern, he’d have cracked out the Dyson.

I had an epiphany while I was unpacking and straightening up this morning. Before the trip, when I found his coffee cup still in the living room, with enough dregs to leave a sizable stain once Little Man surely went for a taste and sputtered the contents of his mouth dramatically all over the family room carpet, or a sweaty pair of boxer shorts squashed behind the bathroom door, having been removed post-workout/pre-shower, left to ferment into a plaid cotton death-bomb, I would think to myself, "Who the hell does he think I am? The maid???" But the truth of the matter, proved by the pressed-shirt confetti, four pairs of shoes by the front door, and urine covered toilet rims I found upon my return, is that H really doesn't do this on purpose, he just really doesn’t see it. He doesn’t leave that stuff thinking to himself, “Let her do it”, it doesn’t even enter his consciousness and it just doesn't bother him.

The things H does, or rather, doesn’t do, around the house, he doesn’t not do to piss me off. I was interpreting every dirty dish left in the sink as an aggressive act, and I realize now how much stress I have been bringing into our marriage doing so. This made me think about how we all create trouble by interpreting the actions of those around us. Especially the ones we love the most. And I asked myself, when did I start assuming the worst of H’s intentions, rather than the best? When you are dating, you make excuses, gloss over small gaffes, because you think this guy or gal is the cat's pajamas. Why, after you have chosen to wear said pajamas for life, do we begin to judge so harshly? Sometimes a shoe is just a shoe.

It's not easy when we are tired and stressed, and trying to keep up with the demands of life and these little short comings do create more work since we happen to be a neat freak. OK, I, happen to be a neat freak - unless you consider my closet. And it is true, if he knows it bothers me so much, maybe a little effort on his part might be nice (which I'm sure he thinks he's exhibiting just getting his clothes in the hamper), but then again, I know how he hates when I jam up the computer with ten thousand open programs and deleted files, yet I still do it.

This new point of view is one I hope to keep as the honeymoon I-haven't-seen-you-in-a-week phase ends and we get back to our lives. I’ll try remember this new discovery the next time I trip over yet another pair of loafers on my way out the door and want to throw one at H’s head.

*Oh, and I made not one, but TWO trips to the urgent care when Little Man developed a double ear infection and #2 came down with strep.