Keeping Our Dirty Laundry to Ourselves
“…AND they do their laundry separately. Isn’t that weird?” my mother-in-law clucked, gossiping about another couple, presumably on the rocks if their laundering habits were any indication, to Mr. Candy.
“Well, Candy and I each do our own laundry,” Mr. Candy informed his mother.
Then she GASPED in horror and lamented our inevitable divorce due to Irreconcilable Refusal to Wash My Husband’s Dirty Trouser Socks. At least that’s how I envision it went down. Mr. Candy, being a guy and all, doesn’t remember how his mother responded to his shocking admission. He was probably distracted by something important. Like a Corona commercial.
Taking a step back, though, I see things from my mother-in-law’s perspective (lord help me) and realize just how independently Mr. Candy and I do live our lives. Which could be construed as odd. Except for the occasional pair of boxer briefs* or undershirt, Mr. Candy and I do our own laundry. Except for the nights we order in or go out (the latter being an increasing rarity), we generally cook, er… nuke… our own meals. Because we live so far away from our families and want to maximize our time with them when we visit, we even used to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas apart — flying to the East Coast together, then staying with our respective parents.
I know, I know. You are GASPING in horror and lamenting our inevitable divorce. Only… it worked for us. I don’t think I’m being naive by saying we share one of the best marriages around. (Yes! Even better than Spencer and Heidi’s.) A little smug, maybe. But not naive. And obviously not needy. The holidays spent apart were not ideal, I’ll admit, but we made sure we indulged in plenty of quality Candy-and-Mr. Candy time the rest of the year.
However, note that I said worked for us. Past tense.
Miss Skye has thrown a monkey wrench — and a sippy cup, and a puzzle piece, and anything else she can get her little hands on — into our nice routine. Spending time away from her was not an option for either of us, so we now split our time between the two families when we’re on the East Coast for Christmas. You’d think that would be a lovely change of pace, getting to spend the holiday as a family unit, but shuttling back and forth between two different states is, for lack of a more delicate description, a freakin’ chaotic mess. (I mean that in the most loving way, Mom.)
All I can say is, thank goodness for spiked egg nog.
Our separate cooking habits also present a challenge now that we have a hungry little mouth to feed. Once Skye requires something more substantial than Cheerios and macaroni (What?! Don’t all 14-month-olds live on that diet?), I may actually have to, um, pick up a spatula. Right after I google “what does a spatula look like?”
“How are we going to cook for Skye when she gets older?” my husband asked me just the other day.
As always, by “we,” he really meant “YOU.” Because by the time Mr. Candy usually gets home from work, our child would be so hungry she’d be gnawing on her Curious George doll. And everybody knows you’re not supposed to introduce monkey meat until a child is at least three years old.
“You can’t feed her your Lean Cuisine meals,” he teased.
“Of course not,” I responded indignantly. “She is too young for diet foods. I’ll microwave Hungry-Man meals for her!”
None of this will be an issue, of course, once Skye finally starts earning her keep around here and does all of our laundry and cooking for us. I mean, that’s why we choose to have kids in the first place, right? To do all of our chores, plump our pillows and fetch us beers…? RIGHT?!
*So you needn’t lose any more sleep wondering, Is Mr. Candy a boxers or briefs man?