I hate...Saturdays?

About five years ago, it dawned on me that unlike most people, Saturday, not Monday, was my most dreaded day of the week. The day husband was home from work. And I can tell you it was five years ago, because I so desperately wanted to divorce him, but had three children under the age of six, and could barely muster the energy to get through the day let alone hire a divorce lawyer.

Generally on Saturdays, he sleeps in, and I rise early, so that works well. I make pancakes and the kids get to watch their favorite t.v. shows and we stay in our pajamas a little longer than normal. Undoubtedly nice chilling time, I always look forward to it.

Then he gets up, and the peace evaporates.

I read a story with my daughter once, wherein a girl is rewarded for kindness with a spell that makes jewels spill from her mouth whenever she speaks, and her stingy sister is likewise penalized with a spell that has snakes spilling from hers. I sometimes think my husband is under such a spell where only criticisms or negative comments spill from his mouth.

On one such random Saturday, I quietly wrote down every negative comment he threw my way during the day. At the end of the day they totaled thirty-seven. I think I still have the piece of paper to prove it.

By the thirty-seventh comment I lost it, and demanded to know why everything that came from his mouth was negative. He told me I was too sensitive, and that normal people conversed openly about these things, that was life.

He doesn't intend these to be criticisms to be taken personally, he said then and still maintains. But when I am the only other adult in the house, I feel obligated to respond, and explain, rather than just let them hang in the air. So my whole day is effectively spent justifying what I either did or didn't do.

They are notoriously insignificant things, like burnt out light bulbs, laundry stains (a nemesis with children under the age of three), toys that needed batteries, corners that needed dusting, shoes that didn't fit, buying the wrong brand of mayonnaise. Hardly divorce material.

It seemed of little consequence that the big picture was a rosy one. Our children were happy and healthy and well cared for, our house presentable, our neighborhood safe. He was obsessed with the most tedious of things, nothing seemed to escape his notice.

"Strive for perfection!" he would say.

"Take a hike!" I would answer.

(We went through this bizarre stage where whenever I made a legitimate mistake - like buying orange juice with pulp - he would try to demand that I recognize my mistake by calling myself a loser. "Admit it! You're a loser! That's what I would call myself if I made that mistake!" Yeah, that was weird. And short lived. He hasn't tried that one in a while.)

Today is Saturday. The complaints are a bit grander in scale, more befitting our current circumstances. I haven't decorated our office, haven't arranged for family photos, haven't put a detailed plan in place with our cleaner. All within the space of an hour.

I calmly deal with first two. (But you are worried about money and we don't use this office, so why would we decorate it? And again, the arbitrary money approach arises, "We have money for THAT!" he replies.) I diffuse the second, and by the third, simply stare blankly at him.

I see his lips moving, but manage to tune out his voice. Inside my head I wonder how it is I ever got to this place, and start counting down the hours until Monday.