Scene: After putting my kids to bed, I come to the master bedroom and grab my laptop to do some work. My husband is in the room too — he’s just begun folding a load of laundry. That’s right, he started folding that laundry because he recognized it needed to be done, and I didn’t have to ask him. I don’t want to be an asshole and just sit down to work while he’s folding, so I join in to help.
He folds one more thing and then picks up the TV remote and starts flipping through Netflix. He can’t decide what to watch. He’s flipping and flipping and flipping and flipping, and while he’s flipping, I fold two-thirds of the laundry. He finally gives up flipping and resumes folding. When the little pile in front of him is finished, he wanders away — to shower. There are still things in the basket that need to be folded, but the folding is mostly “done.” Except…there are piles of folded clothes all over our bed that need to be moved to the baskets for the kids to put away tomorrow, and there are dryer sheets, bits of lint, and unmatched socks on the floor that need to be picked up.
My husband either doesn’t notice these details.
Or he does notice them and assumes I will take care of them.
My face is hot. I want to be mad. I am mad — but I shouldn’t be. Right? This is petty, right? I’m petty. I should be grateful he made any effort at all.
Especially because he did it without any prompting.
But wait a minute here.
WAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIT. A. DAMN. MINUTE.
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