I knew it when he said, "I'm proud of you."

Most people would find that to be complimentary. It filled me with dread. I am not new here.

Yes, in these last few weeks I have made some headway. Cleaned out a hallway we'd been using half of as storage, and got *this close* to finishing our son's room. Walls scrubbed free of crayon, toys cleaned and organized, closet neat. Just a bookcase to arrange and few more things to hang, and I'm done. Almost ...

He hasn't lifted a finger to help with this house in seven years, besides the first few days of moving in, with two exceptions. When I was too ill to move for four days, he did one load of dishes. And one other time, now referred to as "the shed indecent." A tale, perhaps for another day, somewhat similar to this.

But, you see, I am *almost* finished. And that just won't do. And I knew, as mentioned, that it was going to happen when he said it. But, just in case, he tells me all about it first. For days. All about how he's going to move the furniture and sort through the bins in the closet and take down the tree and at least three other things. Because nothing can ever be finished. Oh, no. Anything but that.

Of course, I mention (each time) how I'd just like to get one thing finished. Of course, he doesn't hear me. And I could get angry or sad it about that, and force him to hear me. But all that will get me is another long explanation about how he doesn't care what I value, think, want or need, because it's stupid. I am not new here.

And, so, it is inevitable. I have to go to work. I know what I'm coming home to late Saturday night. Half-finished projects are everywhere. Piles of stuff unpacked from bins is strewn about in nearly every room. Dust, lint and cobwebs have been tracked over, literally, everything. Half the ornaments are off the tree. The rest of the containers are an eight foot tower in the center of the kitchen floor. And the hallway, of course, is more full than before.

I am informed that although he *could* use Sunday to put some of this stuff away, he instead has very important games to play with his friends. Meanwhile, I have to work another thirteen hour shift.

I'll spend my days off vacuuming, dusting, and repacking all this stuff. Just to get back to where I started. But I won't get the boy's room done. Because that just won't do. Accomplishing something has no value, but that won't stop him from criticizing me for it, should the topic arise.

Value lies in the sabotage. Apparently.
NihilSum NihilSum
41-45, F
Jan 21, 2013