Since my husband works odd hours and fewer hours in general than me lately, he's taken up quite a bit of the house work.
Come to think of it, he took up pretty much all of it this past month, as he works early morning hours and is a bit more of a clean freak than me.
So, it's been months since I cleaned the cat box. I help with dishes, but he's often done the laundry and vacuumed and mopped things before I get home from work on Friday to clear our weekend for nothing but fun, and I've often thanked him for his work because it means I can sew -- and I've done a lot of that lately.
Well, this morning, I got out of the shower and heard the vacuum running (he waited til I was up at least, but I must admit there's a tiny voice inside me that says vacuums should NOT run before I've had my first cup of coffee. There's another voice inside me that tells me to shut up that first voice because I should NOT complain that my husband is vacuuming).
OK, I've digressed.
This morning, I got up and once out of the shower, Brian decided to wash the dishes, and in the midst of my getting up for the day, I heard a swear word come out of the kitchen.
Then a "UH OH."
Then a "I NEED YOUR HELP HONEY."
I got out to him with a towel, knowing full well there had to be a cut. And boy it was a beauty. Brian practically cut his thumb off judging by the blood in the sink with the dishes.
I transferred my cup of coffee into a travel mug. With another 2 inches of snow on the ground, I went out and cleaned the car off, and drove my husband to the Emergency Room. Four hours later, we had 8 stitches, lots of guts and blood (I'm not a big fan of anything regarding other people bleeding, although strangely, I'm fine with my own).
When we got home, Mr. Clean is no longer. He has to keep the thumb up, and I find myself asking things like "do I need to clean the cat box today?"
I took out the garbage for the first time in forever. Not without a sense of humor, Brian teases me about whether I know where the dumpsters are in the alley since it's been a while (like a year) since I took the garbage out.
So, in classic Peterson retaliation -- I mean Peterson sense of humor -- I start calling him names. "How's it going, there, Thumbelina?" I ask.
OK, the meaning of all this is?
Brian and I have always switched back and forth on who does what in the house (except the garbage and lawn mowing because for no reason other than it's icky -- that's man's work).
But when I got laid off from my job, Brian came home to a clean house and dinner on the table. Recently, he's had more free time so he does more of the work. We're not married to chores but to each other, and when a quick change in the landscape happens, I pick up the slack.
And after I made some cookies and asked him what else he needed, Brian said how he appreciates that I'm taking care of him so well.
To which I respond, "That's ok, honey. You're my special thumbuddy."