Spilt Milk(tears optional)

I refrained from writing this yesterday because I didn’t want to ruin my warm and fuzzy brotherly love post, but HRH has been a real p.r.!.c.k all weekend.

Yesterday, I was awakened by a bam, a slosh, and a little voice saying “oops.” I resist my urge to just ignore it, knowing from experience that would just lead to more work for me later.

I tiptoe, apprehensive, into the kitchen and start to analyze the scene in front of me: six year old boy standing on the high chair, fridge hanging wide open, tipped over cup on the table, and an entire liter of milk on the floor. My mommy detective skills soon take in that the milk is also splattered on the walls, ceiling, and any other flat surface within a two meter radius.

The good news is that my son is trying to do these things for himself.

The bad news is that times like this push my husband’s borderline abusive personality into the trailer park.

HRH turns to me and says, “This is your fault.” How that is possible I’m not quite sure, but he has an amazing way of deforming the truth, and I know that he has already convinced himself this, too, must be my doing.

It’s the plastic cup, he says. Shame on me for leaving it where the kid can reach it.

Um, he’s standing on a high chair. He can now reach everything that I can.

Husband then proceeds to do a crappy job of wiping up the milk with a bath towel.

Of course you can’t just wipe up milk since it will turn into a stinky, sticky mess, and I’m not gonna tell my husband the floor hasn’t been cleaned properly when he’s in trailer trash mode. So I get a rag and begin to do it properly.

Then it starts: the rag conversation.

“Is that a floor rag?”he asks.
Who cares? I think, but I know all Japanese people care. There is this obsession that the floor is dirty and that nothing that touches the floor can touch anything else.

Come on, yall, it’s the floor, not the toilet.

“Of course it’s a floor rag,” I answer.

“It’s not labeled.”


Who does that? And why would I bother since no one else ever cleans up anything?

“How do you know?” he continues.

Cause I just do! And I’m gonna wash it after I use it anyway! But of course I can’t say that. I can’t say anything because opening my mouth will make the situation worse, and we still have to go pretend to be a happy family at Sister’s Sports Day.

And meanwhile there is still spilt milk fermenting on the floor. And I am on the verge of crying over it.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. gaijinwife
    Oct 11, 2011 @ 09:11:15

    I’ve had the ‘floor towel’ one before – or perhaps it was drying my hands with the tea-towel. I can’t remember but it was bloody ‘#&'”((“(.

    I am annoyed at your husband. How bloody infuriating. He used a bloody bath towel and I don’t see how that can be better than the kind of towel you were using. Labelled? Please tell me he doesn’t straighten the hand towels up perfectly and that all the cans of tinned food are lined up in order…..


  2. hamakkomommy
    Oct 11, 2011 @ 14:41:49

    No, darling, he has no idea where the canned goods are! It’s hard to keep the rabbit hutch pristine when everyone has so much cr@p, and I get that it’s frustrating, but still.
    I’m a firm believer in this quote from a friend’s mom growing up,
    “He who does not help may not complain.”
    If I had my own country, I’d put hat in the constitution!


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