I got irrationally mad at Justin last night. His crime? He lost the remote to the TV in our bedroom. Of course he claimed that it wasn’t his fault — it was our 1-year-old Harley, whom he’d witnessed grabbing it and running away like the tiny little bandit she is.
“But you didn’t stop her!” I cried.
“I told you she had it, and I was busy with the other girls getting their jammies on…”
“I obviously wasn’t paying attention — you have to make sure I’m paying attention!”
He handed me the backup remote that works just fine, and I cried more, because it wasn’t the Apple TV remote that I wanted, and I was mad that he had lost it. We spent a solid 20 minutes looking for it while I grumbled about not being able to have nice things because I created a small army of hooligans out of thin air.
I eventually admitted defeat, and begrudgingly apologized for being a bitch, even though I didn’t mean it at all.
Side note — Earlier today, I found the remote in my pajama drawer, where Harley had obviously dropped it before running off to create more chaos.
Of course it wasn’t about the remote. I knew in the moment that I was angry that it was irrational. Kids lose shit. I had a different remote that worked perfectly fine. Worst case, even if I couldn’t get the bedroom TV to work, I have a phone, an iPad, a laptop, and a perfectly good TV downstairs. Or I could even pick up a book and read it, or you know, go to sleep and get some elusive rest.
I wasn’t upset that the remote was lost. I was upset because Justin didn’t read my mind that that was important to me or understand that I hadn’t heard him tell me that Harley had the remote, and then he had the audacity to suggest that I might be overreacting.
There’s a video that came out years and years ago called “It’s Not About the Nail.” In it, a woman is speaking to her significant other about the pressure she feels, how she can literally feel it in her head, and she’s afraid it’s never going to stop. The camera pans back to reveal a nail literally sticking out of her forehead, and her husband says, “Well … you do have a nail … in your head.”
She snaps back, “It’s not about the nail!”
Whenever Justin and I get into dumb fights about dishes or where the car keys go, or let’s say, a missing remote control, it’s 99.99% of the time an issue that I have brought up out of frustration when I’m feeling overwhelmed or out of sorts.
It’s never about the nail remote control.
Over the course of our relationship, I’ve gotten pretty good at taking a step outside of my momentary anger, and trying to figure out what the real issue is. Last night, it wasn’t about the remote, it was about feeling lonely and just being tired of taking care of myself and the kids for four days while Justin was on a business trip. Wires had gotten crossed, and what I thought was going to be two days ended up being four. I was still salty apparently.
When I was able to tell him that, he got it. We made up, apologized for real to each other, and went on with our evening.
One of the most valuable things I learned in therapy in my 30s was to separate facts from feelings. Are my fears rational? Have I experienced something like this, or am I making up scenarios in my head to make myself crazy?
The weird thing about living through some really hard times is that now I can actually say to myself, “Yes, that has happened to me, and now I’m afraid it’s going to happen again.” Yes, my husband did decide to stop loving me and start treating me badly. Yes, I have lost everything and had to rebuild from scratch. Yes, I have lost babies to miscarriage. Yes, I have been cheated, lied to, lied about, abandoned by people who claimed to love me, and metaphorically spit upon by those who never liked me to begin with.
I spent my 20s desperately trying to hold my dysfunctional first marriage together. I once likened it to trying to fix broken pottery with scotch tape. Maybe it works for a while, but no amount of tape is going to fix a shattered clay pot.
I spent my early 30s as a single mom working 50-60 hour weeks, losing primary custody of my older children (the same dad who never wanted anything to do with them when we were married fought for and won 50% custody because it’s California and unless there is documented abuse, if dad wants 50%, dad gets 50%), being kicked out of church and social networks, and in an on-again-off-again relationship with Justin, who was still too broken to remain in a committed relationship for longer than six-ish months.
I spent my late 30s healing my relationship with Justin, having three babies and losing three more, in near financial ruin after he almost DIED, and stuck in a blue state during covid policies that destroyed lives and damaged a generation of children while feeling like I was screaming into the void about it all.
Someone once told me that grief can be like a rope full of knots, and even the teensiest tug on the tiniest knot connects to all the bigger knots on the rope, and all of a sudden, a missing remote can feel like my favorite person telling me that I’m on my own, again.
But those aren’t Justin facts. Justin has moved heaven and earth to show me how much he loves me. He’s the guy who spent 20 minutes on his hands and knees searching under furniture to find the damn remote. He’s the one who appreciates every little thing I do for him and our family, and constantly tells me so. He’s the one who has constantly showed up, worked his ass off to provide for our family, and doted on our children. The only daddy issues our girls are going to have is finding someone who treats them as well as their dad treats their mom.
That’s why I know the anger is irrational. Because I know Justin.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, “I want what you and Justin have. You guys seem like you’re really in love!”
All I can say is that we are stupid in love with each other. But it wasn’t easy to get here. We’ve both been broken by life, and are just here helping each other pick up the pieces. Maybe that’s all love really is anyway. Finding someone who is always willing to pick up the pieces with you, and glue them back together with super epoxy. Never scotch tape.
Love you, Honey. Sorry I got so mad about the remote.