Evolution of a marriage

We’re in the process of painting our bathrooms. We hired someone to paint the exterior of the house this summer, which looked so good when it was finished, I decided why stop there?

If this were the theatre, my husband would be cast in the role of the long-suffering martyr. His defense when I get an idea in my head is to back away slowly and be as invisible as possible until the project is complete.

Early on in the marriage, I would ask his opinion on paint swatches or towel colors, and then buy what I had planned to in the first place. He would insist he really didn’t care whether the towels I bought were slate grey or heather grey, and that I should buy whatever I liked. That’s what he actually said.

What I heard was, “I care more about this basketball game I’m trying to watch than about our home. I would rather shout obscenities at the television than spend two minutes weighing the aesthetic appeal of chrome vs. brushed nickel fixtures.” This usually ended in a lengthy discussion (okay, lecture) on the importance of communication in a healthy relationship (I can’t help it; I’m a trained counselor).

Six years and two children later, we’re lucky to have any private conversation that doesn’t revolve around whose turn it is to take out the diaper pail. Still, I think we’ve learned a few things.

So when I announced my intentions to paint the bathrooms, he pretended to be genuinely interested in the multitude of paint chips scattered across the dining room table, and I pretended that I hadn’t already chosen a paint color three days before. Duty done, he wandered into the living room to watch the Olympics in peace (Okay, not in total peace. The four-year-old was shouting the same phrase over and over at the top of his lungs, while the baby munched on the rogue Cheerios that had lodged themselves in the elastic of her pants at breakfast). But everyone was happy.