I have a birthday coming up soon. I am closer to being a super-centenarian than I ever thought possible. Since I plan on living until I’m 111, I'm now truly middle aged. Holy cannoli, that went fast.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I am not God. My kids may still believe that I have eyes in the back of my head, but it’s nothing more than good old mothers’ intuition. Sometimes it’s a bit of Sherlock Holmes mixed in – look for telltale expressions or reactions and you can piece together a lot of suppositions. Whatever you want to call it, I’m right more often than I’d ever imagined I could be.
My husband, however, thinks he knows everything and can predict the absolute outcome of all situations. His ‘God complex’. And apparently he thinks I should know also.
Watching a TV show or movie together can be aggravating. He wants to know what is going to happen before it happens. If I already knew the upcoming events, I wouldn’t bother watching the show. I’m watching the show for entertainment. I’d like to watch it in peace rather than having an ongoing monologue about what I think might happen. Considering how my hubby doesn’t like chit chat, he’s sure a Chatty Cathy during my favorite mystery programs.
Books are the same way. Steve seldom reads novels. If I do recommend something for him to read, he wants to know the ending before he starts the novel, so he can determine whether or not he wants to read it.
How can you read a murder mystery or espionage novel in its entirety if you already know the ending? What exactly is the point? Hello!
Many times as we head to one of kidlet’s games, Steve will want to know if the team is going to win. I tell him, “Yes, the team will win.” Then, if kidlet’s team doesn’t win, Steve is upset.
“Why did you tell me the team would win when they really lost? I wouldn’t have wasted my time going if I knew they were going to lose!” he thunders.
“Sweetie, the team that won did win! I just didn’t know which team was ‘the team’. I can’t foretell the future! I am not God and neither are you,” I explain, usually exasperated. “Why would you only want to watch if kidlet’s team wins? Why don’t you just want to see him play?”
Indignant huffing and gruffing comes from hubby’s side of the car, but no specific answer is forthcoming. I can see Steve's mind wrestling with itself. Not sure who's winning.
Guess it’s just another cliff hanger!