Let me tell you two things about my husband: his love language is Quality Time and if he ever finds out that I talked about him and a “love language” in the same sentence, he’s going to melt into a huge puddle of embarrassment that his wife is so, you know….embarrassing.
I’m pretty sure he puts love languages and personality types (he’s an INFP, in case you’re wondering) right up there with palm readings and fortune cookies. But does that stop me from taking the quizzes as if I were him so I can put handy dandy labels on us so I can feel just a little more in-the-know about managing this whole marriage business? H-E double L-Z no!
So, his love language is Quality Time. For him, us sitting on the sofa before dinner and discussing which dog breed has the most personality and whether or not he should make a fake workout video for my entertainment is the ultimate way to relax and recharge before we launch into the mayhem of feeding the small humans and corralling them into bed.
Mine is Acts of Service. Nothing says “I love you, Dweej” more than fixing that sticking bathroom door knob. I know. I’m so romantic.
Here’s the part where being a bad wife comes in: for years and years and years, I’ve been telling myself that I should do things around the house to make him happy (’cause isn’t that what good homemakers do?) and avoid “wasting time” by sitting around and having inane conversations.
Yes, I’ve been trying to talk to him in my language instead of his.
Then I act all confused when he’s high strung in the evenings and can’t relax. Yeah, I’m pretty perceptive.
The other day I decided to put my little theory to the test.
I asked him how his day had been and didn’t try and load the dishwasher while he answered. I didn’t walk around the house putting away laundry while hollering “Don’t worry, I can still hear you! Keep talking!” over my shoulder. I didn’t interrupt him right in the middle of a sentence to say “Hey Paul, can you take this toy to the play room?” I just sat on the edge of the bed. I told him about things. He told me about things. The kids ran amok elsewhere.
And he was calm and peaceful during dinner. So I was calm and peaceful. And then, because of that, he had the energy to water the garden and file some paperwork and get the boy ready and into bed.
Acts of Service! I feel so loved!
Note to self: speak to people in their own language and they’ll probably understand you better.
Maybe there’s hope for me after all.
