Abracadabra!

And just like that, the laundry is folded!

Or not.  And I sit here, knowing that there's more than enough to go around for a fun folding party.  I sit here with steam coming out of my ears because - The Dad said he'd make dinner tonight.  He gets home, idle chit chat with Ryan and then goes to change and heads to the bathroom.  Well... his bathroom visits are 20-30 minutes.  How does he rate?

When I come home from work, before I can even put my bag down, any number of chicklets is asking me what's for dinner.  And "when?".  And then he usually comes in the door, goes to change and heads to the bathroom.  

So why, when it's HIS turn to cook, is he not bombarded with the questions?  And why also, does he think HE should get to do more than put down his bag before pulling up his sleeves and start making dinner.  I work 8 hours a day... I'm exhausted and ready for a 30 minute, mind numbing, do nothing break.  But do I take one?  No.  Because the offspring need feeding.  And clean clothes.  And sheets.  

It's not right.  Annnnnd so I made it be known.  As he shut the bathroom door, I spoke out loudly enough and said "Uhmmm you know, Blue Eyes might be hungry." (To which Blue Eyes did NOT say "it's okay mom".  Which is lucky for him, I might add.)  So The Dad says "What?", knowing full well the words of which had just come right out of my mouth.  So, pretending I didn't know that he full well knew what I'd just said, I lovingly reiterated them.  So he pounded out of the bathroom, looked my way and started to say - "It'll just take a min...  ....  FINE."  Because he knows it will take much much longer than just one minute.  Even he knew, as the words escaped his mouth, that it was ridiculous and knowing that if he continued with that sentence, would have likely been pleading for me to spare his life shortly thereafter.

As I sit here typing this I am listening to him "make" the dinner.  And he hasn't taken one normal step.  Everything is heal first - coming from a guy who walks toe first.  I'm finding the chardonnay helping me to find enjoyment out of the unnecessary stomping.  In the old days, The Dad knows that this behavior would have caused me to get up, steal the spoon or spatula, tongs... whatever, from his hand and take over.  And he would pretend to fight it and say "I said I'd do it", but think he was secretly relenting and slink off and...

Go. To. The. Bathroom.

So Mr. Chardonnay has kept me from former actions.  The Dad may thump, sigh, slam cans on the counter, slam the door as he goes in and out  - all.  he.  wants.  

I'm going to the bathroom.  I'll find something to do for 30 minutes.  I'll just take the rest of the bottle of chardonnay with me in case I can't make myself sit on the pot for 30 minutes.  I think it's time for a little role reversal around here.  I work, I cook, I launder, I mow the lawn...  I think it's time for some role reversal.  He can do those things and I will do the stuff he does.

3 times a day.  A half an hour at a time.