Like a Stradivarius

Last week, I assumed a conscientious, thoughtful wife demeanor. I entered the kitchen with purpose, but not to belittle nor cause defenses to arise. "Michael," I calmly started out, pleased with my nonthreatening tone, "We need to talk." He stopped what he was doing, looked me the eye, no computer screen, no iPhone in sight. All these years of programming have finally begun to pay off. "Yes," he said. His voice was strong, maybe a bit on the defensive, but able to listen. Good. "Look," I continued, "I have a slight suggestion. Now, I don't want you to respond right away. Let me say my piece and walk out of the room, think about it for a while, and we'll talk about it later." I came up with this system because neither one of us is good when cornered with a slight suggestion. And sometimes living with it, even for one day, takes the edge off. "I know how busy you are running the theatre. I am aware that theatre hours demand most of your evenings. However, I think it's important that you be home for one family dinner during the week."

My tone was pleasing even to my ears. I got the information across. I did not accuse. I showed an understanding for the demands of his job, all the while sharing a concern about the family meal. I turned to walk out, but before I was able to leave the kitchen...

"The thing is we're opening a show this week...''

"No. Just think about it. Your kids miss you and would love to see you at dinnertime." Once again, I turned...

"And I'd love to but the sound designer just quit and..."

"I said think about it." My voice pitched higher than I would have liked. I modulated, "I understand this is opening weekend. So, maybe you can find an evening next week to be with your family, which I know is one of your priorities." Okay, I admit, that last bit was un peu bitchy. "Now, let me leave the kitchen for the sake of our marriage."

"But next week we're starting another family series and I need to be..."

"STOP!" exploded from my mouth with the power of Vesuvius back in the day. "I spelled it out for you. Don't say anything and let me get away. And if you had to respond, which is a really bad idea, how bout 'great idea, Hutch' or 'let me think about it, Hutch.' But that's it! For God's sakes, husband, learn to play me."

Two days later, Sebastian was giving me the raspberry. What started out as cute soon became torrential. Droplets of spittle machine gunned out of his mouth at a furious pace. I told him to cease and desist. But caught up in the fun of spraying my visage with saliva, my son was oblivious to my growing anger. There was no help for it, once again I erupted, "STOP! Look at my face. Is this moist face happy?" He answered no. "Of course not. Because this is Papa's mad face. Study it closely. If you see my face beginning to look like this, then it would be smart to stop. Read my behavior, kid. Learn to play me. "

My daughter, Maxie, wanted a graham cracker before dinner. "How do you ask?" I prompted, feeling generous. Pleeeease, she plaintively whined. I didn't like her tone and asked her to try again. She interpreted my request by whining even more earsplittingly than before. Pleeeeeeeeeeeezzzzz! My generosity started to slip. I tried to get her to actually look at me, to use round tones and utter a more appealing please. But she refused with three year old (next week) belligerence and turned to stone. So, I said, "Maybe I'll give you a graham cracker if you say 'You're the best Papa in the whole wide world'" I thought this would break her sullen mood. Besides I love the way she says it. It sounds like You're in bed Papa with da Hawaiian ho. But she refused to play. She started crying and getting hysterical. Generosity gave way to irascibility, so once again... "STOP! You're not quite three, so I'll make this simple. There will never be any graham crackers ever until you make Papa happy. Learn to play me."

I may be setting myself for a future fall. But I realized something. I need to be heard. I need to be respected. Even if my family only pretends to listen to me and mutely nods to my well thought out pearls, I am sure I could derive some sort of solace. But when they start speaking before I've tacked a period to my sentence, when they cut their eyes or ignore me, the same volcanic anger that denied graham crackers and spit games might just take me over the edge. And none of us wants to see where that goes.

So with a little eye contact and a comprehensive ear, play me. Finesse me. Manipulate. Cajole. Fandango. Whatever it takes, pacify my moods with a veneer of understanding.

At some point, I may realize this tactic does not really work. But for now, my dear family. For now...