And the fork ran away with the spoon

She was happy making it home through all the rush-hour traffic without hitting too many snarls. She’d spent the drive, along with most of the work day, seething about the upcoming confrontation. She was still infuriated after finding the statements that morning and seeing the newer even higher balances. She’d left the statements out on his side of the bed so he knew she knew.

In her head, kicked herself, knowing she’d used her bonus to pay off the balance and now it was even higher than before. “Fuck him”, she yelled at the car. She heard him rattle off the same excuses from the last argument, because nothing ever changed on that front. Of course, it was all her fault he had to do things behind her back, because she didn’t give him money, even though they had a joint checking account.

She arrived home and walked to the door slowly, trying to appreciate the quiet outside. She walked into the house and the noise accosted her. The TV in the kitchen and front room competed for her attention, along with their voices. The argument started with his snide comments as soon as the door shut behind her. “Can’t this wait until the kids are in bed”

“Fine but I don’t appreciate you just leaving the statements all over the bed. I had them organized in them organized in a certain way in the box and you messed it up.”

“Oh - you mean there is a method to how you’re increasing the balances?”

“Those were charges from my auctions, you know how I don’t buy unless I can make money off of them.”

“So run it like a business and pay off the charges when you sell the items.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way.”

“Of course it never works that way!” I shouted in frustration

“It’s your night for dishes,” he points out.

They switched between dinner clean up and kids baths nightly, so it was equal. So the smell of that nights’ spaghetti dinner still filled the air.

She turned and refocused on the dishes, seething inside. It was always amazing how many dishes he used to cook a meal. Washing the food off the plates prior to loading the dishwasher, the Blue Willow dish pattern reminded of times gone past. It was a pattern they’d purchased at an antique store when times were better. Antique stores were an obsession of his. It had always been his favorite activity, but not hers. A fact evident not long after they married.

The doorbell broke the tension.

“Hey, I’m getting the door” her husband yelled.

Placing the plates into the dishwasher, she thought of the story portrayed on the dishes. The soldiers marching over the bridge while the 2 doves flew off the dish. And wondered about flying away herself. She frequently fantasized taking the expressway home from work to another place, far away, but held back because she didn’t want to leave the kids.

Suddenly she heard voices arguing. At first, she thought the voices were coming from the front door but it must be from the TV. Abruptly, it changed into a heated argument with profanity. What the hell were they watching?

Her anxiety increased as she considered the consequences. A sudden sound had her imagining a gunshot, sending her heart beating into overdrive.

While she didn’t want to be a single parent, however, there were times she felt up to the challenge.

Why was she staying? He certainly benefitted from her higher salary and annual bonuses. How did she benefit? — certainly not with companionship, support, trust, or intimacy from him. He arrived home first so he could get the mail, pull out the credit card statements, so she wouldn’t ask about them. But later, she’d find them. She suddenly envied the birds.

She’d found out that he wouldn’t pick up the kids until right before she got home as he used that time for his much needed nap. Daily, as soon as she’d walk in the door after work, they all demanded her attention. The noise and commotion hitting her upon walking in the door was exhausting. Why couldn’t he wait to talk to her later once the kids were asleep?

As she finished the dishes, she went into the kids’ room to read to them. That night, they handed her their favorite book of nursery rhymes to read.

Hey, diddle diddle,

The cat and the fiddle,

The cow jump'd over the moon;

The little dog laugh'd

To see such craft,

And the dish ran away with the spoon.

This generated all kinds of questions. Mommy, why did the dish and spoon go together? Were they mad at the fork and knife? Is it because they’re always stuck in the dishwasher?

She left the room quietly, hoping they would quickly fall asleep. She was very tired after her long day, and all of their questions.

She reminded him before heading to bed of their therapy appointment the next day. “Okay,” he responded.

The next day, he started an argument about all the coffee cups she left around the house, and then refused to go to the session, as if that would prevent her from going. He was upset because he felt the therapist was picking on him. She rolled her eyes, that’s because she’s saying what I’m thinking.

At the session, the therapist told her bluntly, he would never change. Funny, how that had never occurred to her. She thought eventually he would change, because, after all, weren’t they both in it for the long haul? Neither of their parents were divorced. “Do you want your kids to model this in their relationships?” she asked.

The question brought tears to her eyes. She was so unhappy, the guilt swept over her. After the session, she called her friend from the car, and amidst tears, described the session.

Her friend asked her as bluntly as the therapist. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I guess I’ll get them both into therapy…”

She laughed, “You think that will fix everything?”

“Well, it’s a start…”