W and I had a fight last night. Well, let me qualify that. By our standards it was a fight. By normal people’s standards it was a calmly communicated instance of mutual irritation. She got home from work fairly late, which is normal for Mondays, and as she was eating her dinner, I eagerly started telling her something I had read about how couples communicate with their donors. I was aiming for a self-congratulatory moment about how we’re so great at communicating, we have been searching for a donor together and we don’t even need the warnings in the book about how it’s inconsiderate for one member of the couple to go off recruiting potential donors without discussing it with her partner first. Right. So, as I spoke the words, “I just read this thing about how couples talk to their sperm do–” a look of indescribable disgust crossed her face. “I’m eating,” she said. The exact same tone of voice as if I had just put a bowl of dog poop right on the table. Dog poop that the other dog had eaten and then puked up. (Sorry–I hope no one is actually eating as I read this.) Just utter disgust. I stopped, mid-sentence, and walked away. And sulked for about an hour, formulating in my mind how I would tell her just how rude she had been to me. Because I was excited about this newly unfolding event in our lives and I wanted to share it with her. Because there are better ways to communicate than having that look on her face. Because I was right, dammit.
Then we had our follow-up conversation. In which I explained that my feelings were hurt by how she responded to what I had wanted to say. And that she hadn’t even let me finish my sentence, which was about how well we communicate and aren’t we wonderful?
Her side of this, of course, is that she doesn’t want to talk about sperm while she’s eating a sandwich with mayonnaise.
She’s got a point, I have to say.
