Tired Mom Diary – Chapter 3 – My Husband Is Not an Idiot
My husband is not an idiot.
I feel like I should mention that before I tell you what happened on Tuesday.
Because on Tuesday, our car died.
Not dramatically. No smoke. No explosion. Just a noise like someone had dropped a fork into a washing machine.
Ben was driving.
He called a tow truck. Called the insurance company. Found a mechanic. Arranged a rental.
By lunch, everything was handled.
I hadn’t made a single phone call.
It was honestly quite attractive.
Then he texted me.
What time is Nora’s dentist appointment?
I looked at the message.
I looked at our shared calendar.
The one he set up.
Thursday. 3:30.
Thanks babe.
I considered texting him the definition of shared.
Instead, I sent a heart.
Marriage.
Wednesday morning, Nora asked where her library book was.
“Ask Dad.”
“Dad doesn’t know.”
Ben was standing three feet away.
“I might know,” he said.
Nora looked at him.
Then back at me.
“But Mom knows.”
She had a point.
I knew.
It was under the couch, where she’d left it after telling me she’d put it in her backpack.
I also knew which couch cushion.
I wish I knew something useful, like the lottery numbers.
At 11:16, my mother called.
“Don’t worry, darling, everything’s fine.”
My mother has never once followed that sentence with something fine.
She couldn’t find the paperwork for her appointment.
I asked where she’d put it.
“In a safe place.”
The most dangerous location known to women.
We found it twenty minutes later.
In a folder labelled IMPORTANT.
Inside another folder labelled VERY IMPORTANT.
I come from a long line of women who create their own problems.
Thursday, Ben took Nora to the dentist.
He remembered the appointment.
He remembered her health card.
He remembered the parking ticket.
He even remembered to ask about the loose tooth.
I was impressed.
Which is ridiculous.
He’s her father, not a golden retriever who learned to drive.
When they got home, Nora announced she needed a new toothbrush.
“Didn’t they give you one?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“Because it’s ugly.”
Ben held up a perfectly normal blue toothbrush.
Apparently, it was the wrong blue.
I understood immediately.
I hated that I understood.
Friday night, I opened a spreadsheet.
Canadian Thanksgiving was coming.
Eight people. Two dietary restrictions. One mother-in-law who says she’ll eat anything and then doesn’t.
I made tabs.
GUESTS. MENU. SHOPPING. TIMELINE.
Ben leaned over my shoulder.
“Are we hosting dinner or invading a country?”
“Depends on your mother.”
He laughed.
I added a column for oven temperatures.
He stopped laughing.
“Want me to handle dessert?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“What should I get?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Okay.”
A minute later:
“Does your mom still hate cheesecake?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Apple pie?”
“She doesn’t like cinnamon.”
He looked at me.
“How do you know all this?”
I didn’t have an answer.
I just did.
THINGS MY HUSBAND CAN DO WITHOUT ME
Arrange a tow truck.
Deal with insurance.
Find a mechanic.
Drive a rental car.
Make dinner.
Take our daughter to the dentist.
THINGS HE APPARENTLY CANNOT DO WITHOUT ME
Read the calendar.
Choose dessert for eight people.
I would like to point out that the man can identify a problem with an engine by listening to it.
I can identify which family member will complain about the pie before anyone has even bought it.
We both have special skills.
Saturday morning, Ben was making coffee.
“Did you order the turkey?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How big?”
“Fourteen pounds.”
“Is that enough?”
“For eight people, yes.”
“Okay.”
He poured my coffee.
Then he opened the fridge.
“Where’s the milk?”
Second shelf.
Behind the orange juice.
Exactly where it’s been for six years.
I opened my mouth.
He moved the orange juice.
“Never mind. Found it.”
I closed my mouth.
That was new.