Once upon a time I wrote an article called Flaws: Sometimes It’s the Imperfections that are the Most Endearing. Sometimes they’re not.
I know I have a lot of quirks that drive Wayne bananas. I blow my nose way too loud. (I’ll admit, sometimes even more obnoxiously than usual. Depends on if I’m in the mood to torment Wayne or not.) I’m very slow. (Sometimes mentally, almost always physically. I don’t like to rush. I like to take my time gathering things, be they my thoughts, my glasses, my coat…)
Wayne’s got some quirks too. His tendency to say, “Whatever” rather than make a decision about where to eat or what activity to do. How, on occasion, he forgets I’m his wife and tries to manage me like I’m one of his employees.
Most times I can look past the imperfections. Sometimes I can’t. The one I find it difficult to forgive is when he blames me for something going wrong. Doesn’t matter what it is. If it breaks, doesn’t work, is lost or misplaced, I’ll be the first one the finger’s pointed at.
For instance, take the taxes recently. He’s the accountant in the family by trade so he handles our taxes.
Yet, when he couldn’t find a certain document it was instantly my fault. Instead of asking if I’d seen it, he was immediately accusatory.
“Where did you put X form?” (Even though I’d never seen it and turns out the company never sent it in the first place.)
Same thing happened yesterday when I was involved in a minor fender bender. I didn’t bother telling him right after it happened. I gathered the other driver’s insurance and headed on my way to get my mom to her doctor appointment.
When I finally did tell him, he wanted to know why I hadn’t told him right away. Why I hadn’t called the cops. Why I hadn’t gotten out of the way in the first place. (The lady backed in to me while I was trying to avoid another car in front of me backing out which also almost hit me. Couldn’t win for losing yesterday!)
Anyway…it torqued me off. He never asked if I was okay, how bad the damage was, why I didn’t think to call the cops. (It’s such a minor dent it never occurred to me to make a report.)
Then when he got home and saw the dent, instead of saying “Hello,” or “Glad it wasn’t worse and everyone was okay,” or “You’re right, it’s not near as bad as I thought,” he said: “You’re screwed. You should have called the cops. What were you thinking?”
Hmmm, let’s see. I was thinking it wasn’t that big of a deal. No one was hurt. I was running late and confused about where to park and which building my mom’s doctor was in. And once it happened, I knew he was going to be upset so I delayed telling him as long as I could.
Where was the sympathy? Where was the empathy? Why am I even asking that?
Because I’m reading this really enlightening book (Trading Places, the one by Drs. Les and Leslie Parrott who will be stopping by Families.com on May 9 for their book blog tour when they answer one of my questions). They stress empathy as essential for a good marriage.
Wayne’s usually pretty good. Not so much last night. Not at first. Eventually his empathetic side shined through, though. Right after dinner.
“Sorry I snapped earlier. Work sucks, another guy quit, this new project is already a nightmare, and now I know we have to pay a deductible to get the dent fixed. But it could have been worse. I’m just glad you guys were okay.”
I could have stewed that this response wasn’t the one he walked in the door with in the first place. I decided not to.
And I realized I have already developed a coping mechanism. It gripes me when he acts like this, but I always walk away. Especially when I know there’s no way I could possibly be at fault for whatever’s amiss. I keep the faith that eventually my name will be cleared, because it always is. Usually with an apology, a hug, and a kiss. (Thankfully that was also the case last night.)
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