I think the repeat references to my husband in this blog are starting to make him a little nervous. The first few (many) weeks I was blogging, I had to beg him to read my blogs and, to be honest, this was frustrating and, therefore, inspired me to antagonize him with what I wrote. Then, about six weeks into my blog, he said, rather offhandedly as he was looking at his FaceBook page, "can you not tag me in your posts anymore?". I, of course, feigned ignorance. Why ever not, my dear? And was informed, ever so kindly, that he didn't need or want his friends or coworkers reading the intimate details of his life. (For the record, the post that day had been in relation to Micah's birth and JMahl's wariness of the soft spot on her head.)
I was shocked. Why, dear, I was only ever complimentary! And besides, why you would be concerned about your coworkers and friends reading that you have a ____ inch ____? I mean, they're going to somewhat assume anyhow, considering you wear a size 13 shoe and have a 3.5 inch long thumb. And, we can't avoid the most obvious stereotype of all...
What's the most obvious stereotype of all, Katryn?
Oh, well, I don't know. I guess it's your shoe size. I wouldn't know. I don't pay attention to stereotypes.
So, I quit tagging him in my posts... so now only my friends and family can read my posts. (or those of JMahl's friends and family that have friended me on Facebook- isn't FB great? Takes "my friends are your friends and your friends are my friends... the more we get together the happier we'll be" to a whole new level.) But he's still nervous. Today I got an email from him: "did you post today? I didn't see one. Can I read it?"
Not yet. Too bad. Not until I write it. But hey, the laundry's done!
Because, while I definitely respect my husband's privacy and humility, I also have to satisfy my own primal urges to write what is in my head and heart. And very often, it is my husband (I will not mention his anatomy) that is in my head and heart. (Honey, that's a sweet comment, so take it as such.)
But this has also worked well in my favor; because, you see, knowing that there is a great potential for his being the antagonist in my weekly "story", JMahl is attempting to ensure his role as protagonist, and is starting to go above and beyond. And I like this. Call me manipulative-- heck, you can even say I'm blackmailing him- but he's now got to make sure that anything I could potentially write about him will be entirely complimentary, since he doesn't have the option of telling me I can no longer write. Or write about him. That could be considered too controlling, and he doesn't want to ever be perceived in a negative light.
In the last few weeks, whenever I've informed him he needs to apologize to me (because that's what I do when I'm tired of fighting: "just apologize already. you know you're going to do it eventually, and I'm tired of being mad and I won't apologize until you do.")- I get a heartfelt apology almost immediately. It used to take a few hours and a small bribe. He's called before leaving work to ask me if I need wine (I do tonight); he's given me shoulder and neck rubs without me having to ask. He even brushed my hair for me the other night- something that rarely happens. And I saw potential here. Potential for an improved husband (I mean "relationship", of course. Relationship.) But I still felt the need for a test. Something to prove that he was going to do whatever it takes to make me feel good- and, therefore, make him look good to anyone still reading this post.
So I asked my husband the other night as I climbed into bed- do you see the difference, the tightness, the firmness in my body since I've been working out? His response was spot on. YES.
And when I asked him if he thought I could ever get rid of the excess belly as a result of four children.. again, I got a YES. (the fact that he never took his eyes off his iPad for any of this conversation is not going to figure into this post).
And when I moaned and complained that when I got on the scale it told me I'd gained six pounds over the weekend, he didn't start listing off the entire package of pizza rolls, the excess amount of chinese food, and ho-hos and the ice cream that I'd consumed over the course of the weekend. Instead he said "The scale's off."
Baby, you keep this up, and you've got nothing to worry about.