I was cleaning the bathrooms on Saturday, and I came across THIS. Again.
So I did what any normal person would do, and I grabbed the camera and took a picture of it. You know, like normal folk. Normal folk who do a photo session with their toilet paper holder, and think, "I am SO blogging about this again."
Didn't we have this conversation a few months ago? In case you forgot, click here Schmoops.
At the time that I noticed the aforementioned situation, I was in full bathroom-cleaning mode, scrubbing sinks and toilets, wearing my iPod and blasting a little Flo Rida through my headphones. Annoyed at the toilet paper situation, and inspired by Flo's rapping, this shawty was straight-up gonna pop a cap, i.e. nag you, and be all, "REALLY? IT'S THAT HARD TO JUST PUT THE TOILET PAPER ON THE HOLDER THAT'S DESIGNED FOR THAT EXACT PURPOSE? COME ON NOW. THAT'S ALL THAT THINGY DOES. IT HOLDS THE TOILET PAPER ROLL. 'CEPT FOR SOME ODD REASON, IT'S HIGHLY UNDER-UTILIZED IN THIS HERE BATHROOM OF OURS."
But then again, that would that never happen because I'm soooo not the nagging type. Right? RIGHT? It's not like I just shouted at you in all CAPS or anything, or got all passive-aggressive on you in my blog.
Hold on a sec. I have to firmly remove my tongue from my cheek.
Okay. Much better now.
Anyway, as I stood there with Flo Rida in my ears, and a camera in my hand, about to take a picture of a roll of toilet paper perched atop our toilet paper holder, I gained a little thing that I like to call Perspective. Therefore, I am letting you win this battle.
Aren't you so grateful that you married such a phenomenal giver?
No really. This one is all yours. I am done nagging you about this. Done. I'm saying, "Uncle". You win. I lose. Do you want to know the reason for my gracious acquiescence on this matter? Because this new-fangled Perspective thing has allowed me to see that this is not your fault. According to an unscientific poll that I took among a few of my girlfriends, I know that I am not alone in having a husband who has this oh-so-minor, but slightly annoying quirk. And that's all it is. A quirk. A quirk for which I am not blaming you; rather, I am choosing to blame your species. It's just one of those things that men do. It's kind of like how men can fart and burp on demand. Yep, it's just like that, but fortunately not so smelly.
Perhaps when Darwin was figuring out evolution, and cracking the code that we all evolved from apes, but instead of ape-hands we got these really cool opposable thumbs on our hands, he should have been all, "Now what to do about men and their lack of toilet paper skills?" Because the thumbs. That's what they do. They're great for the spring-loaded action on that contraption. They're opposable and they grip and push and twist. The thumbs. The opposable ones.
But I digress.
With my friend Perspective firmly in place, here's the thing that came to mind about your hands. Yes, they totally suck at getting the toilet paper on the holder. But those same hands are the ones that gently bandage up a wound on one of our children. They are the same hands that rub the back of one of our crying children. The same hands that work so hard every day at a job that enables us to have this wonderful life. The same hands that wrap around my back in a hug to let me know that whatever I am stressed about is going to be all right. The same hands that bathe our children. The same hands that help a frustrated son with his homework. The same hands that pat me on the back with a, "You're a great mom, Clare," when I'm feeling like I'm doing it all wrong. The same hands that warm up a sippy cup of milk. The same hands that throw a baseball or bounce a basketball with our kids. The same hands that so fervently try to put a ponytail in our daughter's hair, fail, and try again. The same hands that make waffles on Saturday mornings. The same hands that drive us on long family car trips, even though I'm perfectly capable of doing my portion of the driving, but you don't ask me to, because you know I hate driving on long trips. The same hands that clean up a fair share of vomit and poop around here. The same hands that detect a fever. The same hands that show your children what it is like to be a real man and take care of your family in the most loving, caring, demonstrative way possible.
The same hands.
And I love those hands, because they belong to a guy who is the most fun that I have ever met in a person. Regardless of your ability to perfectly thread a roll of toilet paper.
So before my readers are all, "Get a room, Clare and Bill," (because I fear that I have just become one of THOSE people who has crossed the line into cyber-PDA) I will just say that I am done nagging you on this topic, and for that you can thank my good buddy Perspective. He has your back.
And so do I.