10th of December 2024
Tonight, after my husband brought the kids home from kindergarten, we sat down for dinner. Our weekday evenings are predictable—a routine we’ve carefully created and stuck to. It’s one of the few things my husband and I agree on.
One of us picks up the kids around 4 PM, and by 4:30, we’re all at the table together. Dinner usually lasts 30-40 minutes, followed by playtime while one of us cleans up. By 6 PM, it’s bath time, then a mix of play, storytime, or our favorite activity during those dark winter months: projecting a book on the wall. The kids love seeing the static images, and we take turns narrating. Sometimes we’ll include a healthy snack like apples or cheese as we wind down.
We also limit screens in our home. Eva gets about an hour of TV on Sunday afternoons during her brother’s nap. Occasionally, both kids get to watch something if one of them is sick or we’re completely drained. This agreement didn’t come easily—it followed several heated arguments.
My husband is very rigid when it comes to screen time (and many other things), while I prefer some flexibility. I agree too much TV isn’t good for kids, but sometimes a quiet hour with the TV is better than two exhausted parents snapping at each other. That’s my logic, but it hasn’t spared me from criticism.
Even now, when I decide to put the TV on during those “survival situations,” I sometimes get the usual comments. My husband will criticize me, often in front of the children, with words that sting. He doesn’t turn the TV off or propose an alternative; he just makes his comments, leaves the room, and lets me deal with the fallout. It’s frustrating, to say the least. It feels like I’m stuck between doing what’s best for the kids and enduring the unnecessary guilt he tries to pile on. But in those moments, I remind myself why I made the decision. A calm, rested parent—even if aided by a little screen time—is always better than one on the verge of losing it.
Tonight, I made a conscious effort during dinner. My husband often complains that I get up from the table too much, fetching things or managing distractions. To be fair, I believe this is a realistic and fair request—it’s not a good example for the kids if I’m constantly getting up when we want them to learn to stay seated during meals.
Determined to avoid this, I prepared everything in advance: drinks for everyone, after-meal fruit, and even wipes for cleaning the kids at the table. I had the bandwidth to do this today, which isn’t always the case, but it felt important to make the effort. It took extra planning and energy, but I wanted to show that I was listening and willing to adapt.
To my surprise, my effort didn’t go unnoticed. My husband complimented me in front of the kids: “Mommy made very delicious food today.” It was a small gesture, but it felt nice and appreciated. I even noticed him making an effort later in the evening.
After bath time, Eva, who had been sick recently and was just regaining her appetite, asked for more food. I gave her rice with sauce as she requested. My son, seeing food, wanted something too, so I handed him some leftover corn. That’s where it all went sideways. Eva immediately abandoned her rice and demanded corn instead. The situation escalated into a full-blown tantrum. I held firm, telling her she could have corn after eating at least some of her rice.
That’s when my husband would typically start his usual criticism like it was a catastrophe: “You’re such an idiot; why would you give him corn first? You should have waited.” I actually heard the words in my head before he even said them—proof of how predictable these moments have become? An impact of long-term verbal abuse? Maybe. Definitely. But then, something surprising happened. He stopped himself mid-sentence. Instead of finishing, he simply said, “Nothing.”
I was genuinely impressed. Not only did he refrain from criticizing me further, but he also supported me, encouraging Eva to take a bite of her rice first. She eventually did, and the crisis was averted.
After the kids went to bed, I thanked him for his effort. I wanted him to know I appreciated it. His response was unexpected: “I didn’t do anything. You did. You were ‘normal,’ so I reacted accordingly.” That stuck with me. The only thing different tonight was the effort I’d made earlier during dinner. When I asked him what was different, he praised me for being prepared and organized.
While I appreciated the kind words, the underlying dynamic left me feeling hurt. It’s this constant sense that I’m only treated like a human being—only given basic respect—when I go above and beyond. If I don’t make a special effort, which happens often because I’m juggling two kids, trying to turn a hobby into a money-making business, and endless responsibilities, I face consequences.
This dynamic makes me feel like I’m always being evaluated, and when I don’t measure up, I’m punished. Tonight, I couldn’t help but wonder: What is this? Is this even a partnership?
It feels more like a parent-child relationship than an equal partnership. And, honestly, I believe this is a hallmark of a narcissistic dynamic—one that often feels deeply rooted in childish behavior. Admitting that is painful, but it’s hard to deny.
Everyday life shouldn’t feel like a performance. Love shouldn’t always feel conditional. A partner shouldn’t make you feel like your worth is tied to how much you achieve or how flawlessly you navigate the day. It shouldn’t feel like you’re teetering on the edge of failure, constantly punished for simply being “average.”
And yet, that’s exactly how it feels.
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