A few days later, I tried talking to my husband again.
I chose a quiet moment after the children had gone to bed.
The living room was finally tidy.
The television was off.
I had a cup of water beside me, and my husband was sitting on the couch.
I sat across from him.
"I want us to talk about how we handle things at home."
He looked at me.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the children. The house. Everything that happens after you get home."
He leaned back.
"I thought we already talked about this."
"We talked about Tuesday."
He sighed.
I felt the familiar temptation to stop.
But I had waited long enough.
"I need us to share more of the work."
He looked at me for a moment.
"I work all day. You know that."
"I do know that."
I tried to keep my voice steady.
"But I work all day too."
He looked away.
I continued before I could lose my nerve.
"When you get home, you can sit down. I still have dinner, baths, the children, and the cleaning."
"You don't have to do everything at once."
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I couldn't understand how he could say that without seeing the problem.
"The children don't wait until I've finished one thing before needing another."
He rubbed his forehead.
"I'm not saying you don't work hard."
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted those words to mean that he understood.
But he continued.
"I'm saying I need some time to relax when I get home."
I looked at him.
"So do I."
He didn't answer.
The silence made me uncomfortable.
I had spent years explaining what I did.
I had described the diapers, the meals, the laundry, the appointments, and the constant interruptions.
I had hoped that listing the tasks would help him understand.
But I was beginning to think that he already knew the children required work.
He simply didn't seem to believe that the work should interfere with his own comfort.
I took a breath.
"I'm not asking you to do everything. I'm asking you to help."
He shook his head slightly.
"I never said I wouldn't help."
I remembered Tuesday.
I remembered asking him for twenty minutes.
I remembered the sigh.
The reluctant answer.
The anger waiting for me when I came back downstairs.
I wanted to remind him of all of it.
Instead, I asked a simple question.
"Can you watch the children sometimes without making me feel bad for asking?"
He stared at me.
For a moment, I thought he might answer honestly.
Then he said he didn't want to argue.
I looked down at my hands.
There it was again.
The conversation had become an argument simply because I had asked him to consider something he didn't want to discuss.
I wasn't asking him to abandon his job.
I wasn't asking him to stop being tired.
I was asking him to recognize that I was tired too.
But I couldn't make him understand it by choosing the perfect words.
I couldn't make him care by explaining myself more carefully.
I could only tell him what I needed and watch how he responded.
That realization hurt.
I had believed that if I were patient enough, calm enough, and considerate enough, we would eventually find a fair balance.
I had thought the problem was my inability to explain how exhausted I felt.
Now I wondered whether I had been trying to solve something that required effort from both of us.
I stood up.
"I'm going to finish getting things ready for tomorrow."
He didn't stop me.
I went into the kitchen.
There were a few cups beside the sink.
I rinsed them and placed them in the dishwasher.
Then I packed the children's things for the next morning.
I checked that the baby had clean clothes.
I set out the twins' pajamas.
I found the stuffed rabbit our oldest liked to sleep with and placed it beside her bed.
These were ordinary tasks.
They were also the tasks that kept our household running.
I didn't want my husband to feel ashamed for having a job.
I didn't want to compete over who was more tired.
I wanted us to behave like two adults who understood that raising four children required both of them.
The next evening, I decided to make a more specific request.
When my husband came home, I was preparing dinner.
The baby was on my hip.
The twins were sitting on the floor with their blocks.
Our oldest was drawing at the table.
I needed to put the vegetables away and finish cooking.
"Can you take the baby for a few minutes while I finish dinner?"
He looked at the baby.
Then he looked at me.
"Can't you put him in the playpen?"
"I could, but he's upset. I need both hands for a minute."
He hesitated.
I waited.
Finally, he held out his arms.
I passed the baby to him.
My son immediately reached for his father's shirt.
My husband adjusted his hold.
I turned back to the counter.
I chopped the vegetables.
I stirred the pan.
I put away the things I no longer needed.
For a few minutes, I was able to work without holding the baby at the same time.
Nothing extraordinary happened.
My husband stood in the living room with our son.
The twins continued playing.
Our oldest kept drawing.
I finished dinner.
When I turned around, my husband was still holding the baby.
I thanked him.
He nodded.
I didn't make a speech about what it meant.
I didn't want to turn every small act of help into a lesson.
I wanted helping to become ordinary.
That night, I went to bed thinking about the difference between a favor and a shared responsibility.
A favor was something I had to request carefully.
A favor could be granted reluctantly.
A favor could be used as evidence that I was asking too much.
Shared responsibility was different.
It meant that caring for our children belonged to both of us, even when one of us had been doing it more often.
I didn't know whether my husband was ready to understand that difference.
But I knew I needed it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: I Had Wanted One Apology for That Terrible Evening, but I Was Beginning to Understand That the Real Problem Was What Happened After It
I Thought Asking My Husband for Twenty Minutes Was Reasonable Until I Saw the Look on His Face
Part 11 of 28
