How to Accept Defeat, part 2
Tuesday, January 5th, 2010a.k.a.
How Pancakes Made Me Realize I Should Serve Flemish Sour at My Husband’s Funeral
a.k.a.
The Karma Project
It was Saturday morning, and I was making pancakes and bacon. The bacon was for my daughter and my husband. They love it, so I make it for them on the weekends when I have 20 spare minutes to stand in front of the stove to make sure I cook it extra crispy (as my husband prefers) without accidentally burning it.
The pancakes were for my daughter. I was making those in a tiny nonstick pan. It’s the only nonstick pan that we own. It’s large enough to make just one pancake at a time. Yes, it’s a little tedious, but that didn’t bother me because I was feeling good about myself for making the extra effort to make my family happy.
I’m sure you understand.
Anyway, I squirted the pan with cooking spray and poured in the batter to make the first pancake, and that’s when the marital discord happened.
“You don’t need to spray that pan. They won’t stick to that pan.” It was my husband’s voice.
Now, to understand why this was the worst possible thing he could say to me that morning, you must understand something about me and something about him. First, me. I don’t take well to unsolicited advice. I much prefer to learn things the hard way. Ah, heck, might as well just say it. Back seat comments of any kind—about my driving, about my cooking, about anything—drive me to the Planning the Funeral Place. I’m sure it has something to do with my genetics.
My husband? He just looooves to tell other people what to do. The first time I drove with him in the passenger seat, we were just dating. I made it about 10 miles with his “you don’t need to press the brake pedal right now” and “you should really pass this guy” comments before I pulled over, got out, and told him he’d better shut up and drive if he ever wanted to arrive at our destination while he was still alive.
I haven’t driven a car with him in it since, if you minus out the summer his right leg was in a cast and the nine months when I was pregnant and therefore was the default designated driver.
Not long ago, I threatened to stop cooking, too, if he didn’t stay out of the kitchen. He straightened himself out real fast after that threat, that’s for sure. It’s one thing to complain about how someone else cooks. It’s quite another to cook all the meals for a family of three yourself.
So the pancake comment? It was an anomaly. He hadn’t backseat cooked in a long while.
Still, my body stiffened, and my mind went to the “what beer will I be serving at his funeral?” place.
This was worsened by the fact that my husband refused to leave the kitchen. He hovered right behind me, watching me, just to see if I’d dare to spray the pan again after he’d just told me that I didn’t need to do it.
Let me tell you. I really thought about spraying that pan. Oh, I so wanted to spray the pan. So, so wanted.
But, then I decided, just to get him out of the kitchen, that I’d make one crappy pancake without spraying that crappy pan. Then the crappy pancake would stick to the crappy pan and that would teach him about his crappy advice.
Yes, that’s what I would do.
I poured in the batter.
I flipped the pancake.
It didn’t stick.
In my mind? I said something that I can’t type here. I can’t type it here because what I said in my mind would definitely offend someone. The rated G version is this: He was right? He was right?! Not fair! Not. Not. Fair!
You want know what I did next? I mentally pledged to keep this little revelation about him being right to myself. Yes, that’s what I did.
About an hour later, though, breakfast was done. The dishes were washed, and I was thinking about Accepting Defeat.
Dang it all!
He was reading the paper.
I took a deep, deep, deep, deep breath. I exhaled.
“It’s now or never,” I told myself.
I walked over to him. I sat down. I put my palm on his thigh, and I said, “I was really irritated with you for back seat cooking in there…”
“I was backseat cooking? What did I say?”
“It was about not spraying the pan. But…”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! It must have slipped out…”
“Honey?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not mad at you now. I just wanted to tell you that, um. Okay, this is difficult. I just wanted to tell you? You were right. I didn’t need to spray the pan. I am accepting defeat. I was wrong. I hand you the victory. You were right. Thank you for sharing your knowledge with me.”
He smiled, and he kissed me on the cheek.
Can I just tell you how good that felt? It felt so, so good. Admitting that he was right felt way better than all of the times that I’ve been right and he’s been wrong. It was freeing. It was then that I realized that the ability to Accept Defeat and Hand Over the Victory is not something anyone does out of weakness.
It’s not about coercion. It’s not about being a doormat. It’s not about giving in.
It’s about being strong. It’s about putting aside that ego and saying, “Self, I am going to allow myself to make someone else happy. Just because I can.”
It’s quite powerful.
Now, I know that some of you are thinking, “But what if the pancakes had stuck to the unsprayed pan. Then what?”
In other words, what if I’m not wrong. What if am right, right, right? Do I still accept defeat, even then? That, my friends, it the topic of tomorrow’s post.
