I feel that when my husband is in one of his ‘moods’, my children feel like it’s my job to bring him out of it.
He does like to draw it out. It makes the environment in the house heavy, and all of us disperse around the house—like shrapnel from a bullet.
The reason? Could be a number of things, but recently it’s because I’m not sitting downstairs. My husband watches SO MUCH TV! He does all the cooking, so the kitchen and living room have basically become his domain. And honestly, I don’t have the time—or the interest—to just sit there watching hours of telly. I’ve got things I actually want to do: go out and see my family, pop to the shops for a mooch, write, or listen to podcasts. Sometimes I’ll clean or do a bit of gardening, or just lie in bed chatting shit with my kids. I also take the chance to squeeze in some self-care—skincare routines, or a lovely bath with salts.
So I see sitting downstairs as a favour. I’m doing it out of kindness.
Wherever I am in the house, that’s normally where the kids are. They’re kind of drawn in like magnets—both at different speeds depending on their own need for alone time. I find that they like doing their alone time next to me. If I’m in a room, they usually come in quietly and we’ll do our alone time together. My son playing football on his phone and belting out tunes, my daughter with her headphones on, watching her iPad or reading a book.
They hardly ever gravitate downstairs to where my husband is. I think he enjoys his alone time, watching TV like it’s on his to-do list. Each to their own. If he wanted the kids to sit downstairs, he could be more accommodating to them—suggest they watch something together. He doesn’t. So in my mind, that’s him making his choice.
At the same time, he’ll also get upset about sitting downstairs on his own. He becomes sulky and quiet. This could be solved if I chose to sit beside him. Sitting and staring quietly at the TV screen. Not asking what the fuck is going on in this programme—which is Series 3, Episode 9. Because at this point, is there any fucking point?
I could then start a conversation—animated, smiley, safe comments or questions—to draw him out a bit. My kids would then gravitate towards the living room, proposing family-friendly viewing, eventually settling on The American Office (again!).
But I don’t fucking want to. If you have a MF issue, put on your big boy pants and communicate. If you choose not to communicate, then suppress it. Because to be frank, if you can’t put effort into resolving your issues, I don’t want them—thanks. I have a fucking rented storage area for mine already. There is no more space left for my own shit—please keep your own.
It’s currently working for me. I’m listening to the Parenting Hell podcast and writing.
In the spirit of doing my bit—some kind of homage to motherhood—I’ve completed some domestic duties. I just cleaned the bathroom. It was fucking filthy and smelt a little like a urinal. Now it’s gleaming. I’ve bi-carbed the fuck out of the tiles, and the texture of my hands feels strange. There are bicarb granules ingrained in the hard soles of my feet—acting as a gentle exfoliation. On the tiles, it feels uncomfortable, like sand granules. Or dirt! A reminder of my sacrifice.
Side note: Last time people came round to my house, they left with black socks. Mental note: need to hoover and mop the tiled floors.
I feel that my children look to me to be the bigger and better person. To initiate conversation and basically bring the circus into town. Get my fucking big, animated, fuck-off clown outfit on—red nose, big shoes, crazy hair, honk my nose, new-naw—and bring the energy back.
But here’s the thing: I don’t want to. Not even for them. I want to do what I want to do—and nothing more. I don’t want to bring the fucking circus into town—I don’t have the energy. And honestly, even when I do, I don’t think it’s always the best use of my efforts. I want to use my energy the way I want to. Not throw it into the abyss and hope to hear it land.
When I think back to my childhood, it was the same. My dad would come home and there would be just silence and grunting from him. My mum would put up with the ‘silent show’, asking us to answer his questions. I thought it was pathetic. I remember we had no idea what had gone on to bring this about. My mum preparing the dinner plate but us delivering it. The whole household tiptoeing around him.
Anything we could do to avoid being on the radar, we would. Stay low. It was best to follow procedure—Procedure Number 47: What To Do in a Hostile Situation:
- Stay calm
Do nothing to provoke the situation and anticipate all needs. - Listen and try to empathise
Listen to their perspective. Try to empathise with who I consider to be the perpetrator.
(Remember: the perpetrator can never be the perpetrator. While doing this, keep number 1 in mind.) - Boundaries
Now, the actual advice is to assert boundaries. The intent is to display that you are not a pushover.
I don’t recommend this approach in the South Indian community.
If you are a girl, this is definitely not the approach to use.
What is important, however, is that you maintain point 1—and point 2 if required.
All boundaries MUST be flexible. - Focus on the solution
The solution should be to negotiate and compromise.
However, the prime emphasis is on the compromise—and in particular, it’s your compromise.
Maintain numbers 1 and 2 throughout this. (Remember: flexible boundaries.) - Know when to walk away
If you’re done, tap out with your sibling.
Reduce the pressure on your mum.
Go to your room and throw number 1 out the window by screaming into a pillow.
Don’t discuss this outside the house—he will eventually come round. - Learn from the experience
Next time, try and identify the cues earlier to stop the escalation.
Nothing learned, nothing shared, and nothing resolved. Rinse and repeat.
After a couple of days, he would just start talking. By then, my mum would have maxed out number 1 and 2. So any conversation attempts by my dad would be met with dismissive, curt, fast remarks. FFS, we just came out of silence—hold it together, lady, I would think. I would try and subliminally send her messages of peace and love. I would get cross with her—in my mind, it was her responsibility to suck it up and move on.
Now I don’t want to do that.
My daughter is in bed with me now, listening to my podcast and scrolling on her phone. Downstairs, my husband is slamming doors and aggressively doing the recycling. But the air fryer’s on, so at least I’ll get fed.
She looked up and asked, “What’s wrong with Daddy? He seems sad.”
I said, “I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” she said.
I told her, “It’s his responsibility to communicate his feelings. If he chooses not to, that’s up to him too.”
She seems satisfied for now. Is this just how it is?
Leave a Reply