There was a book sale at the the kids' preschool last year. I restrained myself and only bought two.
One book is about 7 million pages long so was added to the leaning tower of unreads on my bedside table, the other one called Spousonomics, was relegated to the bathroom.
Being that it lived in the bathroom, it wasn't long before Andy found it and began to dogear.
Evidently it is a marriage resuscitator.
For me it is the Chris Angell of self help books: I don't even see it but it's full of awesome tricks.
Since it showed up on the scene there have been random love texts from my husband (who did not even own a cell phone a year ago). Granted, most texts are in acronym form that require mental gymnastics from me who is washclothing blackboard paint out of our daughter's hair or opening the garage door for the third time because I forgot Grayson's lunch box.
"W. U gt gd sleep?" says the text.
"Double U? I got God sleep?" says my slow morning brain. And so on.
But he is thinking of me at 7am and that is the point.
Then, just when I'm about to unleash my WHY MUST WE ALWAYS EAT THE DINNER fury on my children who still believe I am absolutely existing to "Watch this! Look at me! See what I can do with my finger!" whilst also scouring my Pinterest board for some kind of edible meal containing a box of rotini and thawed ground chicken, my husband calls. Offering to pick up dinner.
Offering to pick up dinner.
It's like he can see us.
And then there's this other thing of magic happening. According to Spousonomics it's called, Moral Hazard.
I learned about it the night I almost tore my spouse's arms off while he sat innocently scrolling through some car site online.
"Can you PALEASE go make their lunches or something? I am so tired I could spit on you for sitting down. I haven't sat down since last Tuesday. I still have to take a shower, shave my legs, go make lunches, dry my hair, let the dogs out to pee, brush my teeth, floss, check the garage door, lock up...." Neeh-neeh-naneeh-neeh-neeh I nag off into the sunset with copious needs to be accomplished before setting foot near our comforter.
Instead of going on the defense, Andy whispers, "Moral Hazard."
"What? What is that?"
"Moral Hazard, Honey. It's in Spousonomics. It's when there is a lack of consequence that drives negative behavior. Like, for example an accidental moral hazard - Me getting on the computer when you still want help."
"And...how is that an accident?" I ask with every possible jaw muscle visible to the outside world.
"I didn't know I was making you mad because you never told me."
And there was the magic. Immediately, I was a deflating balloon hissing from ceiling to floor. I never explained myself. He could not read my mind after all. Every night was a personal assault for me while (on the other side of the male universe) he was just chilling at the computer by 8pm.
"Ok then," the fight in me gone, "Consider yourself told."
And he did. Because of the language used in Spousonomics, my husband does not sit down until we can both sit down. Or close to it. It's only been a week but we have both tried to even out the night time responsibilities. I still have my tedious rituals that can't be ignored because I refuse to go to bed icky.. Men can do that. Men also don't seem to get cavities if they don't brush. Forget about flossing. Show me a man who flosses and I might just hide my wedding ring.
I'm so grateful Andy found our bathroom book.
I'm also quite grateful it has graphs, industry terms, and very few shades of gray.
The best part is I'll never have to read it myself.
Okay, you're right, I should and probably will but I'm still totally not shaving my legs if he doesn't pack a lunch.
Graph that, Spousonomics.