Page 21 of Untangled
“Don’t you think this might make us less close? There’s a high likelihood I’ll wake up tomorrow still frustrated by what you say tonight.” I’ve always been risk averse. Oldestdaughter, people pleaser, and—as I’ve noted before—a rule follower. I don’t like conflict. I especially don’t like it with Daniel because he’s entirely too logical. Sometimes I just need him to listen. Maybe that’s my biggest pet peeve.
He interrupts my spiral to say, “Getting our grievances out in the open is always better than stewing on them. And these are pet peeves, not final straws. It doesn’t have to be too deep.”
“What even is a pet peeve? Obviously, I understand the question but who came up with the phrase? Pet sounds too friendly for peeve.” After saying and hearing the word so many times in succession, it’s starting to sound wrong.
“I wouldn’t bet the house on it, but my guess is that pet means ‘yours’ or ‘something you keep close’ in this context, like it does for pet project. So, a pet peeve is the thing you are peeved about and can’t get over.”
Again, far too logical. And frankly, my question was rhetorical. Am I stalling? Yes. Do I care? Not particularly. I grab our hefty gray comforter and pull it further up my legs. We registered for it at Crate & Barrel, and my grandma got it for us as a wedding gift. Her card included a note about “the importance of time together in bed,” which I have tried not to think about every day since.
“You seem peeved currently,” Daniel says. “Do you want to start?”
I roll my eyes dramatically in response. “Sure. Let me think about the biggest.”
The words come out sounding snarkier than intended—I just need a minute to sort through my strategy here. I could list the things that bother me in quick succession if asked: the way he pronounces ‘miracle’ as ‘merical,’ his choice to bring his smelly yardwork shoes into the house instead of leaving them in the garage, that he won’t eat ground meat in any preparation (not because he’s vegetarian, but because he’s picky), the way his gray hair and smile lines make him look more handsome than ever while mine make me look haggard.
But the card today is asking for the biggest pet peeve. I take a deep breath and release it with a flood of words that come out with no strategy at all. “It feels like you can be flexible with your job when it benefits you, but when we need something from you, it’s too busy at work.”
Wow, yeah, that was big all right. The complaint that escaped has been bottled up in my chest for a year now.
“Straight for the jugular, then?” he says with a light laugh, but it’s the kind meant to break tension, not to indicate humor. I could pull back, try to soften the way the sentiment landed, but instead, I double down.
“I don’t understand how you are able to take a morning off to get your car serviced and detailed, or meet an old coworker for lunch, or get a haircut, but when I ask for something—like you coming home at 4 o’clock on Tuesday so I can go to a physical therapy appointment—you can never leave.”
“Ido so much for our family, Molls. I’m contributing the way I can, and when I get home, I’m all-hands-on-deck until Violet’s asleep. The amount of housework and parenting I do is way more than anyone else in the office, and I know because we talk about it. If I have a meeting or a call, or if there’s a deadline approaching, I can’t just step away,” he says. And then he hammers the nail into the tender flesh of my heart with, “Especially for something optional like physical therapy.”
“Healthcare isn’t optional, Dan! I gave my entire body for our baby, for the better part of a year, so we could have this family. So you could have a chance to be the kind of dad yours wasn’t. I want to be able to run, jump and sneeze without peeing myself. Apparently, that’s too much to ask.”
“No, listen—that’s not what I’m saying. It’s not too much to ask to do PT, we just need to coordinate on the schedule. If you give me enough notice, I can probably work it in, barring anything unexpected coming up.”
“I want to be able to rely on you,” I reply. “Do you know what it’s like being everyone else’s safety net and having none of your own? If you need cookies for the company potluck, I make them. If the house needs attention, I schedule the technician. Violet needs new clothes? I know the right size. And yes, it seems silly, because these are easy enough tasks. That’s not the problem. The problem is that I make sure everyone else’s needs are met, and nobody looks out for mine.”
“I make sure your needs are met!” he shouts in a whisper, to not wake the baby. “I pay our mortgage. I bring in the trash can every Thursday. I keep track of our investments and work with the accountant to submit our taxes on time. All of the yardwork? That’s my job. More than that, I listen to you. It may not seem like it, but I really do. I’m trying my best. And my pet peeve is that you can’t seem to recognize it.”
Guilt is a familiar, heavy, sticky thing. It never strays far from its home in my chest and doesn’t wait to make itself known when I’ve forgotten to feel it. Right now, my guilt is performing a baton routine—sharp stabs of it against my ribs.
“I’m sorry, I…I know you do a lot. I didn’t mean for this to become a game of who-does-more. To be honest, I’m jealous that you get to have autonomy. You can get a haircut when you want and don’t have to ask for permission for it. My time is never my own anymore.” Tears start to fall against my will, wet tracks streaking my face. “We used to be on parallel paths and then we had a baby and your life looks 90% the same and mine is unrecognizable. When it seems like you have flexibility, and you’re using that time for yourself when I don’t have any time, it makes me angry.”
Daniel scoots closer in bed and wraps his arms around my shoulders. Pulling me to his chest, he brings a hand to cradle the back of my head.
“If you need time for yourself, we can make that time, Molls. It might not be on a workday, but I can take Violeton Saturday mornings so you can have some flexibility. We can do that,” he says.
The tears keep coming, and my guilt dances an encore at the way I’m snotting all over his shirt. “You sure?”
“Yes. I want our little family to get what they need. Not just me and Violet, but you too. I’m sorry I haven’t offered before, that I didn’t see your need for it. That’s my fault,” he says.
“I’m sorry for making you feel like what you’re doing isn’t enough. You’re a great dad, Dan. Truly. And you’re right, you listen. We are two lucky girls to have you.”
“Even when I fuck up?” he asks.
“Especially then, because you always make it right. And you are patient when I screw up, which happens way too often.”
“I think you’re perfect.”
“I think you’re full of shit,” I say on a snotty laugh. “Can we be done now? This card sucked.”
“Did it? Because you just got yourself a massage on Saturday.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve already done two massage cards,” I say.
