Carry on

When I got home from an appointment at 9:15 last night, Phil was at his sewing machine, busily stitching away at the tail for the 500 square foot kite he's hoping to take out for it's inaugural flight at a kite festival this weekend.

I had had a long day... Phil had to leave early yesterday morning for work, leaving me to pull double drop-off/pick up duty with the kids. I was tired, grumpy, and desperately needed wanted needed to just sit and knit for an hour before collapsing into bed and starting the madness all over again tomorrow.

So I get home... and the dinner dishes aren't done. The pots and pans are just piled in the sink. Mocking me.

I won't lie: I was kinda pissed. Phil and I have this informal understanding that whoever makes the dinner doesn't do the dishes, and dudes... I made dinner. I made dinner, watered the plants, gave the kids their baths, put Maxime to bed... The dishes should TOTALLY have been done when I got home, y'all. Seriously. And there he was, sewing away, without a care in the world.

So I did that thing we wives do when we're pissed because our husbands didn't do something we expected them to: I didn't say a f***ing thing and did the dishes myself - really loudly - while sighing dramatically and sending bad juju in his general vicinity.

Must've worked, too, because after a minute he looked up, sort of mumbled an apology and tried to make light of his obvious transgression of The Rules by saying "At least I emptied the dishwasher though, right?".

"Hmmm..." I scowled and kept scrubbing.

"You get the urgency of this though" he said, pointing to the yards and yards of fabric beside him, "right?"

"Hmmm..." I said again. I may have huffed a little.

He paused for a moment, clearly trying to figure out a way to make me understand.

Then he says: "I'm rushing to finish my sweater for Rhinebeck, Dear."

Carry on, dude.