Butterflies all over again

This morning she had loved her husband to pieces. She couldn’t even tell why exactly it was, that the routine of the every day suddenly made place for a vague of deep and overwhelming love. She had passed the night on the couch, running to the toilet every thirty minutes, crawling in pain. It was that bad, that she even called the doctor with nightshift. It just hurt that much.
When she had somewhat sticked herself together to prepare her slightly feverish little boy for daycare (teeth, oh teeth, there are so many of you that have to pop) and her husband had finished his shower, he firmly told her, right before leaving, LB on his arm, that they would discuss the decision of letting go of the cleaning lady this weekend. He wasn’t happy with it. She had been angry at first, because she had not taken that decision on her own, and he had approved. Apparently he didn’t understand exactly what he had approved of. His arguments were honest and even considering: he needed that mental rest that at least once in a week the house was cleaned. Maybe not perfectly, maybe not the way he would do it, but cleaned. He knew her messy character, he knew she would put her best effort in it at first and then stop finding the time to do it on top of a fulltime job. He said that he knew she needed some time for herself, to blog, to read, to do whatever it was that he couldn’t understand, but that she clearly needed.


She knew he was right. She had wanted to cut finances where it could, with the best intentions. And probably she would be able to do the cleaning on top of everything else. But it would soon become overwhelming. And she would still do it, but feel stressed about it. No good thing. And he would be unhappy about it, because he needed a clean house, a sanctuary to come home to, he had done it himself for years, but couldn’t bear the idea of combining that work with his current job. So honestly? Even if she was sure they had talked it through and his reaction now showed he hadn’t actually been listening very well, his arguments made good sense. It was hard to hear though.

In some way she wanted to invest the mental energy that went into work, into her house and her family. Maybe because work wasn’t going smoothly lately, maybe she changed after the birth of their son, but anyway: she really wanted to take care of the house and all the beloved beings in it. Even if tidiness was not her strongest point and not something she was used to invest in. She didn’t know yet how to explain that to her husband, but he left a great opening there in the promise they would talk things over again this weekend. It showed he knew her well and while there was a but of egoism in there (his mental rest – but then again: it’s how he functions, so why don’t take it into consideration?), there was also a lot of care and the feeling he had to protect her from herself. Realizing that, all while looking at him with their son on their arm, all adult and man of the house, made the butterflies in her painful stomach go wild. No doctor would help with that…

Author: Elvira

Woman, wife, mother. Trying to slow down and take the time to listen.

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