I can tell he's tired. Tired by the goals that he sets himself. Tired from working long hours. Tired from renovation work. Tired from the stresses of a demanding job and the headaches of negotiating to sell a house. Tired from a mind that whirs with thoughts of what now needs to be done to the new house before his family can move in.
I can tell he's tired. We snap and snarl at each other. And there it is. Again.
"All you do is scrapbook!"
I fall back into silence. Stung. Because he has completely forgotten.
He has completely forgotten all the long hours I've put in completing the renovations. He has completely forgotten how I've been shifting furniture while the baby sleeps. He has completely forgotten the hours and hours and hours of housework and tidying I've done in the last two weeks to keep our house pristine. He has completely forgotten that we've had a sick baby who wakes during the night, crying for his mummy. That we've had a sick baby who, when he's awake, just wants to curl up in his mummy's lap. He has completely forgotten that I've spent countless hours sitting in a childcare centre while our son gets used to the new home that will be his for two days a week. He has completely forgotten that last week I returned to my old job two days a week.
This, the regular old argument when we are both tired and stressed. The argument that I have a hobby. Because, a hobby is not permitted in our hectic lifestyle. This quaint, somewhat silly hobby does not fit in with our lifestyle. It does not make sense to him, when his goals are of striving for accomplishment. With his view that one should be busy and productive for sixteen hours a day, seven days a week.
And then I remember that he does all this, that he works so damn hard, and pushes himself so incredibly, for us. For Jamie and me. So that we can not go without. So that we can afford to send Jamie to a good school.
And so, with a sigh, I accept his accusation for what it was. Tiredness. Possibly envy, that I get to sit still and relax, doing something that brings me joy. And I tell myself that it doesn't matter if he doesn't appreciate what I do. I tell myself to let it go. I tell myself that in years to come, when he has forgotten what his son used to look like as a tiny baby, when he has forgotten the funny things his son did as a toddler, he will catch sight of my waste-of-time albums and he will remember. And he will appreciate.