Okay, I know about genes and stuff. I know that P looks like a mini-Sasquatch because my husband and I are both over 6-feet tall. BUT, when personality comes into play, things get a little squishy. For example, this morning I pointed out to P that we were running about ten minutes late, and he launched into a whole, “It’s not my fault,” riff. I never said it was his fault. I never accused him of lollygagging around the house when we needed to be getting into the car. It was a combined effort of lateness, and I was merely pointing out our lateness so that he would move a little quicker. He was loud, he was defensive, he was borderline teary, and, most of all, he was me.
If Jason comes home and says that the house is a mess, I immediately hear that I’m lazy. If he isn’t crazy about the new recipe I try, I interpret it as a slam against my admittedly mediocre cooking skills. P has apparently inherited that ugly, reactionary little gene because when he goes into that mode, he is just like his mama.
That should make things easier, right? Since I do it myself and since Jason has been dealing with me for over twenty years, we should both know how to handle it. Clearly that doesn’t make a bit of difference, and we’re both left alternately bewildered, angry or upset by P’s outbursts of defensive self-righteousness.
I don’t have a conclusion for today because I don’t know the answer other than I wish there was something else reflected in the mirror of myself when I look at P because what I see is something I really don’t like about myself, but I have to admit that it’s an accurate reflection.
