Dirty Laundry

I want to be in the open air, even while dirty

My husband says stupid shit.

We both want to be right. But he wants to be right about there being no right, while I believe some things do indeed happen.

Even if, say, I had just dressed our toddler—eczema cream on his legs and thin, yellow cotton trousers to protect his rashes on the 90-degree day—when my husband walks in and says, "Ok, let's get the boys dressed.” So I hand him the remaining t-shirt and socks while I turn to dress our older son. Then my brilliant yet oblivious husband claims he can't find any trousers for the baby because he just took him out of his "pajama pants" to change his diaper. I tell him those were trousers, not pajamas. But even when I hold up the pajama shirt he's confused with full pajamas, he still shrugs: "Well, who's to say. Nobody knows what's happening ever."

Postmodernists are idiots.

***

Now, I concede that perception is reality and perception is subjective. I recognize that someone can see the same pair of pants as looking completely different.

But if there were a camera in the clouds watching over us, even if my husband perceived sweatpants to be pajamas and saw those sweatpants as chartreuse, the sky camera would show us the same object. We could point at the camera and say, ‘That's what I put him in / took him out of,’ and we could agree it was a misunderstanding.

But my husband doesn’t say that. He’s as dogmatic about no-one-truth as I am about one-truth.

Then, he prefers to remove himself from disagreement and strife with a conversational shrug, a subject change, and a discussion of the daily news and the weather.

It’s the first 90-degree day today. An airline in India crashed, a full plane.

The superfluous bits of information annoy me because, like my one truth, the subject change makes me feel further dismissed. I can’t move on when I feel ignored by the one who’s supposed to see me.

So, I hold onto the disagreement. I carry it out of the house on the walk to school. I cannot smile and act normal with our fellow school parents. I continue our discussion in public. People overhear us in a respectful yet not-without-passion debate.

I once told my dad that Joe and I weren’t agreeing on something. It wasn’t nearly as heated. It was just logistics. There was no hurt to our lack of consensus, but my dad responded, “I don't need to know the personal things.”

with credit to Ivory Soap and Phil Are Go!

Personal things. My people are so uncomfortable with disagreement that we call them personal things. Dirty laundry. Something to keep wrapped up in a hamper, preferably with the ultra-soiled bits removed so the odor doesn’t spread. We seclude problems to rot in private.

I can tell that our fellow school parents are uncomfortable seeing us as anything but our usual carefree morning selves. But disagreements happen. Heated chat comes as hot days do.

I've seen other moms unlike themselves. I've heard the neighbors bicker. I nod, and I move on. There's not one sole soul who hasn't tiffed with another. I assume it’s but a molehill.

***

We argued about what happened. Joe said, maybe the baby had taken off his trousers, or the big kid put him back into his pajamas. Never mind I’d been with them both the whole time. Never mind we should’ve been discussing something else altogether.

I wasn't bothered about the trousers. I had an overarching, clichéd feeling of labor unacknowledged. Joe felt disregarded, too. I just needed to say, “Oh, shush, you silly man.” And he'd say, “Yea yea I'm a moron.” And I’d say, “And I’m uptight.” And he’d say, “A tight ass,” and grab my bum. Or perhaps we needed an extra shag or one more chat than we’d had the time for, lately.

Sometimes we go too long before we wash our relational debris. Laundry is only dirty because it's soaking in our day's sweat, dust, and dead cells. The residue of life. It’s not inherently foul. It just needs attention, the right temperature water, and time to come clean.

***

We made up back at home. He’s good at not giving up on me—even when I forget small talk is still presence—and I think I'm not bad at it myself. We were laughing after an hour. Maybe in another five years it'll take half as long.

But if it ever takes none, I’ll worry.

The heat makes us passionate ones a little crazy. I think it’s worse if you keep yourselves cooped up. Stifled air makes sour things fester. It’s best to open the windows. Let the argument breathe.

I could worry about what the other parents thought about our personal business, but then I'd spend less time thinking about the person whose thoughts I really care about—the philosophically minded dick. My philosophically minded dick.

Besides, he would say, people can think they know things, but the only thing you can really know is what you think, and even that’s debatable.

By the way, did you hear air conditioners are being recalled for mold? Everything needs washing eventually.

Soundtrack:

Here you have me all bare, too. Your likes and comments make me feel seen. Thank you for your company in this dirty life. I’m sending love your way, every Monday.