Knowing your place

I probably would have described it as a rustling sound, but my wife most certainly would have used words like "skittering" or "scurrying." Regardless, the noise captured our attention quickly and completely. I honestly cannot even recall what task we were accomplishing or what conversation we were having. But I know we were sitting together at our desk upstairs on a Sunday afternoon. The children were asleep, and the house was quiet...that is, until the noise. While Amber and I would have described the noise differently, we could certainly have agreed on a few things:

1. The noise clearly came from our attic storage area.
2. The noise clearly resulted from a living thing inside said storage area.
3. This was a critical moment in our marriage.
   

I recognize that point number three sounds somewhat extreme, but I am not exaggerating whatsoever. I crawled over to the storage space door with some significant trepidation. Amber was practically cowering in the corner, and anything even remotely resembling a rodent could spell disaster. When I saw a little grey creature moving quickly across the attic doorway, our household officially entered crisis mode. The following exchange probably captures things best.

Amber said, "I am going to the store."

"What about this?" I asked.

"When you married me, you knew the deal. You take care of mice." she answered, "Period."

And that about sums it up. I couldn't really argue the point. Mice were not explicitly mentioned in our marriage vows, but the arrangement was fairly clear nonetheless. Any time a mouse or even a mouse-like creature approached our living space, I would be chiefly responsible for addressing the situation. This has held true for nearly a decade now, in fact. Even when we served as Peace Corps Volunteers in the South Pacific, my wife dealt admirably with snakes, large bugs and less than ideal bathroom conditions. But the large mouse (another terminology debate here: I say "large mouse" she says "small rat') that crept into our kitchen every night for a period of weeks? That was firmly my responsibility. So I was not surprised when my wife fled the premises last Sunday. Clearly, this little animal was my responsibility. You could say that my wife staffed for her weaknesses.

So I grabbed a large bucket and crammed some peanut butter and cheese at the very back. Yes, it was a stretch, but I prefer to attempt humane capture and release first. As I knelt down with the bucket in hand, it occurred to me that every long-term relationship involves unwritten rules like this. My brother has been washing his family's dishes for nearly 20 years now because his wife made that expectation quite clear when they got married. You can probably think of some unwritten rules of your own. These rules and expectations are not really about gender; they are about understanding our limitations and preferences. If two people are going to form a team, they need to understand their roles. As the lone male writer for this website, I will make the requisite sports analogy.

None of the players on the Chicago Bulls' 6 championship teams questioned Michael Jordan having the ball in his hand on the last possession of a closely contested playoff game. Everybody knew their roles. Jordan might pass or he might shoot, but the ball would be his and the choice would be his and the moment would be his. If someone else had questioned that, they would have been quickly set straight. Jordan's responsibilities were quite clear in clutch scoring situations, and my responsibilities were quite clear when rodents surfaced in our household. That's how teams thrive and succeed, after all. It's just essential that those roles are discussed and understood long before that defining moment pops up. For example, I've known rodents were my responsibility for 10 years now.

At any rate, something unexpected happened when I poised my bucket just beyond our attic storage area: a bird quickly fluttered into the bucket and then retreated back into an old pillow case. The whole episode only took a split second, but I breathed easier regardless. Our unsettling noise was a tiny bird! That simple fact would cause my wife to breath (and sleep) easier. I took the pillow case to our back porch, and my son got to witness a small bird escaping onto our steps. The little bird eventually flew up to our garage roof, greeted some other beaked friends and chirped happily at his new found freedom.

When I called my wife to share the story, she said only this, "I have no idea if you're telling the truth, but - if not - it's the best lie you've ever told." What can I say? I know my role.

- Cliff (aka The Husband)