I love Manchild so much, it makes the hair fall right off of his face. It truly is sad, because it totally makes me weak in the knees when he’s wearing two weeks of scruff. He was a wonderful carer for a couple of months, but then he figured I’d feel better about myself if I do all of the self-care taking. It’s true. Sometimes it’s difficult, but I manage, and overall it keeps morale on the upper end of fine.
Somewhere along the line, this turned into, “I’ll let her take care of me, because that makes her feel good too.”
Fair enough. It was sort of my job before my DNA got stuck to the side of the gravitron and permanently scrambled making me more or less worthless as a domestic goddess. I stressed that it really does take all I have to care for myself, so each additional task I take on outside of that requires me to sacrifice bits of self-care. I’m willing to do that to a point. I’ll skip showering and eat a bowl of yogurt for dinner every once in a while if it means he gets to eat something other than corn dogs. I’ll push his dirty laundry to the front of the line and go commando for a couple of days while I get him caught up. I’ll even pick up his trail of crap and spend the next day or two in bed while cursing him under my breath.
The key being every once in a while. This isn’t how it worked out. It went from being a nice favor to being something that’s expected. He sees I’m capable, so it must be fine. Oh boy, no. It’s not fine. It’s a bit too much for me, especially now that I have to roll everywhere I go rather than walk, and I should have known from the start that it would happen this way. I’ve asked him to take care of his stuff. Laundry, dishes, offered to help him with cooking if he needs it (ha, he definitely needs it), and have asked him to pick up after himself. He acknowledges, then nothing happens. The laundry piles up, the dirty dishes multiply, the trail of crap grows and I fall over stuff. I get agitated, and calmly make the same request again. Repeat this process 10 times, and I reach my limit. The agitation is obvious and he tells me I’m irritable and I need to increase my pain meds again.
No! I’d hurt less if I didn’t have to adult for you, doofus! He’s turning me into a nag. I don’t like nags. My Mom is the worst. When I nag, I can hear her super obnoxious nag voice echoing in my skull. It’s not cool. I’ve devised a plan that may or may not work. I’m making a chore board and making a schedule for both of us so that household duties will be split, and laundry days will alternate so the washer and dryer will be free when they’re needed. He’s good about taking the trash out every Wednesday because it’s when trash pickup is scheduled. I think this is a reasonable solution, and seeing what needs to be done on a board in front of him might keep it from slipping his slimy mind.
This had better work, or so help me, I’m taking a drip torch to the piles and trails before the nag becomes permanent.