Three Reasons I'm Saying Sorry

It's tax season, and for the first time ever we owed money this year. We thought having a second child in 2010 would score us a rebate: no dice.

We got the bad news a few weeks ago, and have been checking the check book ever since: shifting money from savings to checking, mentally tightening our belts, and calculating the decreasing percentage of my self-employed pay check that we actually get to keep.

Not surprisingly, we've bickered a little along the way. Survey after research study after casual conversations with your friends reveals that virtually every couple fights about money. Not having enough of it means you fight about how to allocate your limited resources. Even if you have enough cash to pay the bills - and maybe even save or take a vacation - you probably still find a way to get tense when the topic comes up. We do.

As a result, tonight Cliff and I had this exchange:

Me: I'm sorry I got pissy.

Him: I'm sorry if I was pissy too.

Ah ... forgiveness.

No doubt we'll repeat this conversation next April, and probably a few times in between. So here, in advance, are the reasons I know I'll need to say I'm sorry:

1. I forget to give Cliff the benefit of the doubt.

Let's say Cliff notices a charge on the card - $150 at Target. It's reasonable for him to ask, "What did you buy at Target?"

Usually I struggle to remember, then offer a generic response: groceries, diapers, maybe a some spring clothes for the kids? But inside, I feel defensive, and I want to say: "You know it takes a lot of money to feed this family, but I don't see you complaining about the ice cream in the freezer."

Perhaps on another night I ask a question about how our budgeting software works. And something (probably imagined) in his tone of voice sets me off: I'm convinced there's condescension as he answers.

What I forget in exchanges like these is that Cliff is a reasonable person. Nine times out of ten he has reasonable reasons for asking questions. Nine times out of ten he answers questions patiently and graciously. I unfairly read into his words and immediately turn defensive. I don't give him the benefit of the doubt, and he deserves it.

So I'm saying sorry.

2. I forget that we're in this together.

My blood pressure rose as I wrote hefty checks to the federal and state government. In that context, any conversation with Cliff has a higher odds of getting pissy.

Money fights, especially when the budget is tight, are tough because the problem can't be solved by make up sex. (Though it's not a bad idea to try.) Getting over the argument doesn't mean the circumstances have changed.

What I need to remember is that we're in this together: it's his bank account, too, that is shrinking by the minute. We might as well hold hands as we sign the check.

Again, I'm sorry.

3. I forget to have perspective.

This season's financial stress will pass - our marriage is here to stay. The higher than normal credit card bill will get paid off, the unexpected medical expenses will be paid for eventually, and hopefully the car won't need repairs next month.

Keeping money woes in perspective is important: even when they last for years, they're still less important than the person you're sitting next too.

Sorry, Cliff, for forgetting that sometimes.

When we were Peace Corps volunteers in Tonga, we used to play a card game with friends, betting our Pa'anga (the Tongan money). It was a low stakes game - the equivalent of exchanging nickles and dimes - but it still hurt a little when you lost a stack of coins. Then someone would laugh, point to the odd looking money, and say, "You can't spend this sh*t any where else."

Perhaps gambling isn't exactly setting a great example ... but the theory holds value: put a little less emotion into your relationship with money, and a little more emotion into your marriage. And be quick to say you're sorry.