Last week the MIL stayed with us, because she had a day surgery test and she wasn’t allowed to drive afterwards (the test was negative, no need to worry).
I must be totally mellowing in my old age, because her visit was sort of a welcome change of pace. My kid was ecstatic, Alfred was happy. It was actually…enjoyable.
(No, I won’t share my meds, sorry.)
Anyway, during her stay, she was supposed to be resting, recovering and not doing much of anything, so naturally that meant she was hauling and folding my laundry. She threw out half of Alfred’s holey socks and then tsk’ed over the sorry state of his undies.
“I guess I’ll have to buy him some,” she said.
And I replied, without a trace of bitterness or annoyance, “Please do!”
There was a time that her statement would have set me on edge, overly sensitive to the implication that I was not doing my job or taking care of Alfred properly. I have since realized that I am not That Person, the person who keeps tabs on her husband’s underwear situation.
Because, I’m sorry, but he’s a grown adult. He has a job and a mortgage and occasionally gets the oil changed in the car. He’s perfectly fucking capable of replacing his own ratty undies. And socks, for that matter.
He doesn’t, very often, but he’s capable of it.
So while I have bought him underwear (when he’s requested it), and sometimes when I do laundry I look askance at the specimens that are older than our relationship, I just can’t bring myself to maintain the quality of his collection on an ongoing basis. Call it a wifely failing, but that’s just not who I am. Albeit misguided, I expect grownups to take care of that shit on their own.
And if that means waiting until their mother does it, well…whatever.