All right, dudes, what’s with the car?
Why is it so important? Why is it that my husband can walk through our wrecked, chaotic home without noticing a thing, but toss some grimy kid food in the backseat of his car and he’s immediately up in arms?
I clearly remember the first time I noticed this craziness. Nico was about a year old, and our house had gone from decent to disgusting in a manner of months. I want to say I was able to move past such pettiness, but I wasn’t. It drove me absolutely insane. It was bad enough that I hadn’t slept through the night in a full year, and now I had to live in filth and squalor on top of it?
The mess didn’t bother Ken in the slightest. Here and there, he’d give in and help clean up, but only once I’d completely flipped out and gone off the deep end. Once we’d finally gotten our house semi-cleaned-up, I couldn’t get him to help me keep it there. Nor could I find a way to get him to put away his shit—basic stuff like even hanging up his coat or putting away his shoes.
And don’t even get me started on the socks. What is it with guys and their socks? Do they actually multiply overnight before mobilizing in the pre-dawn hours so that they can take over our last, clutter-free remaining space?
None of this is even taking into account the 13,652,896 pieces of paper my husband trails around him on any given day. Nor the 800 magazines he subscribes to.
“But they’re free!” he says every time I ask him to downsize a bit.
“But you don’t even read them!” I say. “You don’t have time!”
“That’s not the point,” he says. “I might need them one day.”
Ah yes, I think it’s safe to say that Ken just wasn’t bothered by the filth the same way I was.
Then, one day my easy-going, laid-back husband walked in the house and started ranting about my dirty car.
I looked at him in shock. “Since when do you care what my car looks like?”
“It’s disgusting,” he said.
“Well, no shit,” I said. “We’ve got a one-year-old who gums everything in sight and tosses it wherever he can.”
“You need to take that thing through a car wash. Better yet, take it to one of those places where they’ll clean the inside.”
“What’s the point of that? It’s just going to look disgusting again by tomorrow.”
“Don’t you care what it looks?”
“God, no. It’s just a car. It’s not my house.”
And just like that, we’d established ourselves on opposite sides of the house-car debate. I didn’t care what my car looked like; he didn’t care what our house looked like.
Is it just me? Or is every hubby out there insane?
But you know, I have to admit that he’s eased up a bit since we’ve had Gabriel. I mean, he’s had to—now that we’ve got two kids, we’re just about out-numbered. Gone are the days when my hubby poured his earnings into a nice car and fancy wine. Nowadays, we’re happy when our car gets rated “dependable” by Consumer Reports, and we’re not eating pasta again for the seventh night in a row.