Home Sweet Home
Though I am a married woman, I find that I still spend a lot of time alone. You see, my husband is a musician which means late-night rehearsals and gigs throughout any given month. In addition, he is a night owl. He does not like to leave a party, and will more often than not, be the last person standing. I, on the other hand, have abandoned my partying ways and now opt to stay home, sitting on the couch watching Seinfeld re-runs. Add a glass of wine in my hand and I am one happy girl. I will leave him out, and make my own way home, knowing that "5 more minutes" in his world really means 5 more hours. And I feel no guilt, because I will be happy once I make it to my cozy home.
Why is it that men have a harder time succumbing to the home-life? I remember quite a few Sundays growing up, watching my mother skulk around the house, a black cloud of anger and resentment covering her, because my father had decided to go to the Legion and play cards with the boys. Also, during his drinking days, we would go to parties that would undoubtedly turn bad as the day progressed and the men got drunker, while my mother would watch to see how much he was drinking because he would not want to give up the keys when it was time to go home. According to him during those drunken afternoons, he was fine to drive and his children were the most beautiful kids in the world. I hated those parties. And my mother was always having to be the responsible one. I feel that way, too.
The hubby can stay out all night, go late to work the next morning, enjoy a leisurely lunch with his friends, then spend the evening toiling away until his building closes, at 10:PM. By the time he gets home, I'm ready for bed. He has all the energy in the world, when he's hanging at his favorite bar, talking to other musician friends. But if I ask him to take care of the credit report problem that has been haunting him for years, or get his driver's license re-issued, he doesn't have the time.
I try to make our home nice, welcoming, appealing to him. And he says it is. But he is just drawn to the scene. The after-hours parties. The talk of music. The deep discussions that come after a few drinks. And why would he rather be home, with me, when all he'll see is a pile of stuff that he needs to take care of. Responsible things that he's not quite ready for. They say that boys mature slower than girls, and I know that's true. It must just be in our nature. Part of having ovaries that makes us want to take care of things. Everything in order so that things run smoothly. These men are so lucky to have us. Or are they? Their lives would still go on and it wouldn't be that bad just because a bill is left unpaid. They can be drunk and oblivious to the world, sleeping their days away and partying into the night. And we women will just forgive and forget. "Oh, he'll grow up when he gets married." Well, that doesn't happen. "After the kids arrive, then he'll have no choice." Yeah, right. I know plenty of immature fathers. So maybe they never grow up, and are happier because of it.
Why is it that men have a harder time succumbing to the home-life? I remember quite a few Sundays growing up, watching my mother skulk around the house, a black cloud of anger and resentment covering her, because my father had decided to go to the Legion and play cards with the boys. Also, during his drinking days, we would go to parties that would undoubtedly turn bad as the day progressed and the men got drunker, while my mother would watch to see how much he was drinking because he would not want to give up the keys when it was time to go home. According to him during those drunken afternoons, he was fine to drive and his children were the most beautiful kids in the world. I hated those parties. And my mother was always having to be the responsible one. I feel that way, too.
The hubby can stay out all night, go late to work the next morning, enjoy a leisurely lunch with his friends, then spend the evening toiling away until his building closes, at 10:PM. By the time he gets home, I'm ready for bed. He has all the energy in the world, when he's hanging at his favorite bar, talking to other musician friends. But if I ask him to take care of the credit report problem that has been haunting him for years, or get his driver's license re-issued, he doesn't have the time.
I try to make our home nice, welcoming, appealing to him. And he says it is. But he is just drawn to the scene. The after-hours parties. The talk of music. The deep discussions that come after a few drinks. And why would he rather be home, with me, when all he'll see is a pile of stuff that he needs to take care of. Responsible things that he's not quite ready for. They say that boys mature slower than girls, and I know that's true. It must just be in our nature. Part of having ovaries that makes us want to take care of things. Everything in order so that things run smoothly. These men are so lucky to have us. Or are they? Their lives would still go on and it wouldn't be that bad just because a bill is left unpaid. They can be drunk and oblivious to the world, sleeping their days away and partying into the night. And we women will just forgive and forget. "Oh, he'll grow up when he gets married." Well, that doesn't happen. "After the kids arrive, then he'll have no choice." Yeah, right. I know plenty of immature fathers. So maybe they never grow up, and are happier because of it.
posted by Tracy at 7:33 AM
2 Comments:
Some of my favorite memories as child were of my mom losing that argument with my inebriated father, and then sitting in the backseat praying like never before that we'd make it home.
Or those times where my mom would be feverishly plowing through the pile of bills, sweating bullets as she wrote out a dozen checks and tried to make the balances match up. And there's my dad: sitting on the couch, beer in hand, engrossed in "Bond week" on TBS.
People say you turn out like your parents. In my case, Dad was a full-time lesson on what NOT to do.
My favorite was when I would get involved and sidle up to dad, trying to sweet-talk him out of the keys. Eventually, probably after driving the truck into a ditch while we all huddled together in the back crying, my father stopped drinking so much and handed the keys over more readily. Ah, the good times!
Luckily for us, he only drank when there was a party going on. My mom always said that he was not the kind of guy you found sitting at a bar after work. He always came home, full paycheck in hand. Just like my hubby... eventually!
And my mom had complete control over the money. My dad would make the money and then hand over his measly paycheck each week and she would dole him out his allowance to cover his coffee and roll in the morning, the daily paper and gas. She would write all the checks and he would ask for things as he wanted them. A bit controlling, yes, but also a responsible woman. Probably where I get it from.
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