Last night, as I struggled with the thought of spending all of the next day alone with my toddler and newborn, my husband sensed that I was “off.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m just really not looking forward to tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?”
With that simple question, something was unlocked. He really didn’t know. How could he? Despite being incredibly involved and supportive, as much as he’d like to be empathic, he cannot be. At most, at this point, he can strive for sympathy, because he truly had no idea what my day was like, and why it caused me so much stress. So I decided to explain it to, as best I could:
Living with H is like living with a time bomb.
“You mean, because of the pooping?” he asked. H is in the middle of potty training. He’s mastered everything except pooping on the toilet. As a result, I get to scrape crap out of underoos at least once a day.
Yes, the pooping, but that’s only part of it. It’s also the emotions. It’s wondering whether or not he’s going to listen today. Or listen when I need him to. It’s wondering what we are going to do with ourselves between 7 am and 5 pm.
Going somewhere isn’t easy because H might have an accident while we are out. I have to think about where the closest bathroom is. Is the bathroom big enough to fit the stroller? Is G going to be awake while I change him? How disturbing is her crying going to be?
While we are out, are we going to get close to nap time? If we are in the car while nap time is close, is H going to fall asleep? Should I keep driving to lull him to sleep, or just go home and hope that he cooperates? If he does fall asleep, will he stay asleep as I carry him up two flights of stairs to lay him down in bed? If he doesn’t fall asleep, how hard will he fight me on taking a nap? How many times will he get out of bed? During all this, will G be awake and hungry?
While we are out, will G need to eat? Will an accident in a store cause us to be out longer than expected, and cause her to get fussy? If I have to feed her, will there be something to amuse H? Will he listen and follow directions while I try to feed her and mind him at the same time?
What if we don’t want to, or can’t leave the house? Will H’s toys be enough? I know they won’t be, so the real question is, when will he get so stir-crazy that I can’t take it any more? Is the garage play area enough of a change in scenery? Or do we need to go to the playground around the corner? When we get there, how long until he inevitably poops his pants?
During all this, I’m having to remember to eat. Did I eat breakfast? Did H eat breakfast? The only one I’m certain has been fed is G. Has is been two hours already? How could she be hungry again? Am I getting frustrated because I’m hungry?
As I finished rattling off these questions — questions so familiar to me from their time in my brain, I hardly had to think before listing them — I took a deep breath and looked at my husband. He looked like I had hit him with a two-by-four.
He didn’t understand. He didn’t say, “I don’t understand.” But I could tell. He wants be empathetic. He wants to reach out a hand and tell me, “Oh honey, I know exactly what you mean.” But he can’t. Because he doesn’t. And I don’t know any way to help him help me, other than to give him these insights into my constantly whirring brain. The endless to-do lists and worries and hypotheticals. All I can do is take what is inside my head and verbalize as best I can, with the hope that at some point, we can truly have empathy for each other.
