Taking Responsibility

This week has been so freakin' crazy that I simply have had no time to post about my irritations. No. time. Mostly my irritations have been inwardly-focused. . . I don't know if that's good or bad or if it just is. I say stupid things. My inner voice torments me with thoughts attacking my self-esteem. Why? Is this the truth for all thinking people? Sigh. I don't know. But I do know that after seeing a disgusting picture of myself, I am determined to make some changes to make myself healthier. And truthfully, I've been convinced my whole life that if I were skinny, I'd be ridiculously happy. Yeah. Not true. I think?

Anyway. . .my husband got angry with me today for forgetting to remind him to take his checkbook to pay or childcare provider. Angry. Because he doesn't remember 'dates like that.' I am still puzzled as how this is more my responsibility than his. We both work. We both parent. How is his oversight my fault? Yeah. I don't know either. And before you wonder, I didn't in anyway shame him or blame him. .. only suggested he stop by the bank to get cash to pay her.

It makes me ape-shit angry that he can't accept responsibility for ANYTHING. Of course, as it might be apparent from other entries, I blame all of this on his parents. Parents that said things like, "Why did you do that? What are you--stupid?" I still can't freakin' fathom how anyone could say that to their child. Or any child. It turns an incident in his grown-up life from being an "oops" to a full-blown blame game which in turn, leads to an argument. All because I can't let it go. In my head, letting it go would make me that subservient wife, and surely that's not me.

Let me tell you a little ditty:
Once upon a time, many moons ago, my parents, husband and I went to a baseball game. A baseball game in the blazing heat of early June. Now we stayed because we were devoted, sweaty fans. After escaping from the heat, we stopped at Sonic, the source of all that is good in frozen-drink land, to purchase PowerAde slushes to refresh our sweltering souls. Ahhhh. Relief.

Predictably, a few miles down the road, my mom and I had to use the facilities. Stat. There was no way that we could make it the hour and a half longer to reach the comfort of our own homes. We stopped at a convenience store to run in. My dear husband and I were riding in the back seat of my dad's extended-cab pick-up. You know, the kind where the back half-door opens the opposite way? Well being the considerate child I am, I placed my liquid-gold slushy in the cup holder at the bottom of said backwards door. Unbeknownst to me, when I closed the door, the top-heavy cup turned over and spilled my frozen treat all over the floor of my dad's beloved truck. Oops.

I believe my dad something like, "Oh, let's clean that up." No big deal, because it was an accident. You may now be wondering why I would recall such an inconsequential episode? A valid question, to be sure. It is embedded in my memory because my dear husband (boyfriend at the time) was AMAZED that my dad wasn't angry. Amazed. This is such insight into his reactions and his childhood. Why would my dad be angry with me over an accident? Even if it was a sticky mess? I wasn't careless. I wasn't being irresponsible. It was just one of those things.

And this, this is why my husband can't take responsibility. And it is also why he makes me want to scream and beat my head against the wall. Or yell "fuck" really loudly. Or even all of the above. All while praying that my child can grow up to take responsibility and that I'm not jacking him up in the way my in-laws did to my husband.