So I was having a conversation with my mom this morning. It was preceded by two text messages from her that read, and I quote:

Yesterday 6pm: “Hardest person in THE WORLD to communicate with.”

Today 10:09am: “Ditto what I said above.”

Apparently she had not been satisfied by my response times. The fact that she didn’t drop the f-bomb or call me a cretin, seems like a real win though (except now that I’ve Googled cretin to find out what she’s been calling me all these years, it does seem a bit un-PC if not entirely inappropriate, which, I guess, only makes me love my mom more).

I share all this is to say that I did finally call her back. Dad answered (for you kids out there, confused as to why my dad answered a call to my mom, it’s because I was calling on something called a land-line, which is rough piece of twine attached to an empty soup can.)

So dad picks up, and fills me in that mom is “feistier than usual” [chuckle]. Then goes to hand her the can, errr, the phone. Well mom gets right down to what she’d been wanting to talk about. Just run-of-the-mill mom stuff. Worrying about how she did her kids wrong and feeling guilty about it. I assured her that I don’t recall feeling like I missed out on anything and while I’m sure she fucked me up in other ways, it certainly wasn’t the result of not getting spring-break trips to Hawaii.

Once she got the mom-guilt out of the way she was able to move onto more pressing matters. “YOUR father came into the studio this morning and saw that I HAD A HUGE BANDAID on MY finger and he asked me what happened and I told him that I’d sanded part of my finger off and then HE launched into a litany of HIS INJURIES.”

And at that very moment, I KNEW EXACTLY WHAT SHE WAS SAYING.

If you have a husband, I bet that you know, too.

Because while our sweet, sweet husbands do so much right, there is a nasty little habit that many/most/all(?) of them have. I call it a “He-Too Moment” and it’s particularly egregious, because of it’s timing.

When your finger is gushing blood or you’re taking a moment to rest your head on the toilet between pukes, it’s at THAT VERY MOMENT where things go wrong. Because instead of leaning in with a hug, a bandaid, a wet rag to wipe the chunks from your chin, instead, AT THAT VERY MOMENT your husband shares with you that he too had a bloody finger once and he too has been wondering if he might also be starting to feel vomity…

And so your moment gets slid aside so that he can share his moment. And while you sit there, blood dripping down your hand, barf drying in your hair, you begin to wonder how you will kill this heartless neanderthal.

I’ve seen it again and again, and not just with my dearly beloved. All generations. Husbands of all kinds. So finally, FINALLY I decided to do some research into the matter – ie. talk with my hubby about it. And lucky for you, I’m here to report back what I learned.

When I said to my hubby, “dude, it makes me feel bad when instead of just acknowledging my pain and maybe helping, you immediately share a story about yourself.” And you know what he said? “oh fuck off, Sarah.” And you know why? Because he said, “I was trying to show you empathy” – (full disclosure: we’ve maayyyybe also had this conversation a few times before and so he was feeling hurt and, well, you know, marriages.)

Regardless, his whole empathy-argument surprised the shit out of me.

It seems so contrary to what I think would be the natural reaction. I mean, when a kid comes up to you with a cut knee, you don’t tell her about the disgusting, gravel-filled, cut you got when you were her age and you tripped over a gutter outside the goat barn at the Clackamas County Fairgrounds. No, you dive in there and get the gravel out of her knee, wipe away her tears, and make her a snuggly spot on the couch. Maybe then you share a story of your own, but only after you’ve made it clear how much you care for her.

Alas, I take my husband at his word. I think he truly is trying to show empathy. And I’d like to think that most of the time, even when our fingers have been cut to the bone or we’ve blown a sinus during a full-throttle vomit sesh, and our hubbies have a He-Too moment, it’s truly because they’re trying to do what’s right – however wrong that is.

So, ladies, here’s my recommendation: 

Regardless what happens to you – dismemberment, puke-tastrophe, whatever, let’s have a little more grace with each other – husbands and wives. When your man asks you what’s wrong, don’t brace yourself for his eventual story. Instead, give him a little guidance maybe have him read this blog post, let him know he’s not alone. And then the next time he asks what’s wrong? look him in the eye, wipe that puke from your mouth, and tell it like it is. I bet he’ll know what you’re saying.