I think we were friends before. Of course, I can’t remember now. Mere adversaries today. Tomorrow might be better, if one of us chooses to retreat. Marriage, humph. As sacred, which equals scary, as the whole institution is, I loved it in the beginning. Seven or eight months ago. Maybe this morning too. I wonder when I lost track without even knowing that I had stopped counting the days since I had arrived at my sweet paradise. I wonder when Eden faded and something close to, but not quite Hades was birthed. Maybe it was the loads that became tons of weekly laundry that would only respond to my hands or my touch. Or maybe it was the cookies that kept burning in the oven every time I tried, because mommy, employee, student, and wife, overthrew baker. And I forgot the cookies, no I forgot the oven existed.
I know… it was ironing clothes for two days for three children while reading, Through Women’s Eyes, for Thursday night history in the Masters program, coupled with reviewing galleys for work the next morning, all the while looking forward to a precious four hours of sleep. It was creating my own schedule so that the kids had a ride to school and didn’t have to wait in the rain after they were released for a ride that would never come. It was me, the magician who got up first and alerted the family that daybreak was underway and it was time to start the day. I didn’t only push start on the coffee pot; I ground the coffee fresh daily.
And in all my venting and ranting and raving, I love him. Today, I don’t like him, but always I love him.. I burnt the cookies tonight and I am upset. I burnt them last night too and he braved the cold and drove to the nearest grocer to buy more.. He was sorry that I had burned them. He blamed himself. He said that he has learned to watch the oven when I bake because I have so many roles that I tend to loose track. I promised me last night, no more burnt cookies. Or maybe it was no more angry love. No more pouting, I promised. I think. But after more burnt cookies and an hour of wailing Bob’s Could This Be Love, I pout. Did I mention it was because of burnt cookies? Can you believe I tossed the whole pan across the kitchen? He ran in (this was not the first time I had thrown the burnt cookie pan). I had already placed my earplugs back into my ears and pushed play on the Ipod and Bob was back in my ear with his melodic hymn about love, life, and peace by the time he made it into the kitchen.
He was careful with his words and looked me directly in the eyes (even though I avoided his). I think he does this for control, but he’ll say that he does it to indicate that he is paying attention to me. He spoke gently, but loud enough that his voice drowned out Bob’s, “Why do you do that?”
I didn’t look up from the dishes (that I had started to wash to take my attention off of the cookies), but I was aware that the cookies still lay on the ground beside the fridge where they had landed. “Don’t come in here,” was my sharp reply.
He stood a bit longer, willing me to look at him. When I didn’t he disappeared down the hallway, to give me and those cookies time to cool off.
He returned later when I had folded Bob’s voice up and placed him on the counter. I was in the den now, folding warm clothes from the dryer. He was in the kitchen, sniffing through the Alfredo that I had prepared for dinner. I still avoided his eyes, which he seemed unfazed by. He looked over the bar into the den and asked, “Hey babe, want me to fix your plate?”
He is a good man, burnt cookies don’t faze him. I fear though, that this angry love I am giving will push and push and push and push. He will be a hurt man, an angry man, a burnt man. Much like the cookies I tossed tonight. I don’t want to love him angry. So I pray:
Lord, give me the patience to handle the everyday obstacles of being a matriarch. I don’t take it lightly, but I know that there is a perfect balance in your plan. Give me vision to see anger before it has a chance to engulf my spirit. For your word says anger but sin not, and in my anger I am prone to sin. Humble me before my husband as he follows you, I shall follow him. Position my family so that the true head is the head and I am but a help-mate. Give me comfort in the fact that there will be plenty more burnt cookies, but let truth be in no more angry love.
I know… it was ironing clothes for two days for three children while reading, Through Women’s Eyes, for Thursday night history in the Masters program, coupled with reviewing galleys for work the next morning, all the while looking forward to a precious four hours of sleep. It was creating my own schedule so that the kids had a ride to school and didn’t have to wait in the rain after they were released for a ride that would never come. It was me, the magician who got up first and alerted the family that daybreak was underway and it was time to start the day. I didn’t only push start on the coffee pot; I ground the coffee fresh daily.
And in all my venting and ranting and raving, I love him. Today, I don’t like him, but always I love him.. I burnt the cookies tonight and I am upset. I burnt them last night too and he braved the cold and drove to the nearest grocer to buy more.. He was sorry that I had burned them. He blamed himself. He said that he has learned to watch the oven when I bake because I have so many roles that I tend to loose track. I promised me last night, no more burnt cookies. Or maybe it was no more angry love. No more pouting, I promised. I think. But after more burnt cookies and an hour of wailing Bob’s Could This Be Love, I pout. Did I mention it was because of burnt cookies? Can you believe I tossed the whole pan across the kitchen? He ran in (this was not the first time I had thrown the burnt cookie pan). I had already placed my earplugs back into my ears and pushed play on the Ipod and Bob was back in my ear with his melodic hymn about love, life, and peace by the time he made it into the kitchen.
He was careful with his words and looked me directly in the eyes (even though I avoided his). I think he does this for control, but he’ll say that he does it to indicate that he is paying attention to me. He spoke gently, but loud enough that his voice drowned out Bob’s, “Why do you do that?”
I didn’t look up from the dishes (that I had started to wash to take my attention off of the cookies), but I was aware that the cookies still lay on the ground beside the fridge where they had landed. “Don’t come in here,” was my sharp reply.
He stood a bit longer, willing me to look at him. When I didn’t he disappeared down the hallway, to give me and those cookies time to cool off.
He returned later when I had folded Bob’s voice up and placed him on the counter. I was in the den now, folding warm clothes from the dryer. He was in the kitchen, sniffing through the Alfredo that I had prepared for dinner. I still avoided his eyes, which he seemed unfazed by. He looked over the bar into the den and asked, “Hey babe, want me to fix your plate?”
He is a good man, burnt cookies don’t faze him. I fear though, that this angry love I am giving will push and push and push and push. He will be a hurt man, an angry man, a burnt man. Much like the cookies I tossed tonight. I don’t want to love him angry. So I pray:
Lord, give me the patience to handle the everyday obstacles of being a matriarch. I don’t take it lightly, but I know that there is a perfect balance in your plan. Give me vision to see anger before it has a chance to engulf my spirit. For your word says anger but sin not, and in my anger I am prone to sin. Humble me before my husband as he follows you, I shall follow him. Position my family so that the true head is the head and I am but a help-mate. Give me comfort in the fact that there will be plenty more burnt cookies, but let truth be in no more angry love.
LaToya S. Watkins is the author of the forthcoming
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1 comment:
I thoroughly enjoyed reading this thought-provoking passage and I'm sure that many women will find that they can relate to it as well. I know I did... LaToya is a very gifted writer and I look forward to reading her upcoming novel along with all the other PITS authors!
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