Gosh

You know–just when I think I need to give this blogging thing up I come back to the site and have new folks that have posted.  I appreciate it so.  I’m working now so keeping my posts updated is at best difficult.  My editor friend, who is tremendous, continues to encourage me and give me ideas for new ways to expand.  She and you all are true peaches and I’m glad I’m on this journey with you. 

 

I’m going to give this upkeep another shot so thanks for not disappearing on me.  I so appreciate your words and support.  Motherhood may make the world go round, but mothers in the hood make the world come alive.

 

d

There’s a Booger on my Lampshade

There’s a booger on my lampshade;

 a bunch sticking near my bed.

I’ve got quite a good collection

by the pillow near my head.

I don’t want my mom to find them

‘cause she fusses all the time;

about my picking and my digging

“It’s like you worked inside a mine”.

Sometimes I like to flick them;

they go clear across the room,

but I have to do it quickly cause

my mom could walk in soon.

“Don’t do that” she will holler;

first she’ll gag and then she’ll wretch.

Then she’ll rub my nose clean off

with some stupid, pink Kleenex.

I just can’t seem to help it,

there’s some in there I can tell.

 I love to clean them out but,

“No tissues near…oh well.”

There’ll be boogers on my lampshade;

and some tucked beside the couch.

A few flicked on the doggies;

maybe one inside my mouth.

But what’s a kid to do,

it brings me so much joy;

I simply must continue digging

after all, I am a boy!

On baseball

My husband said he wants me to watch more baseball.

I said I want him to stand in a corner and poke his eye with his thumb till it bleeds;

same thing.

He doesn’t understand why I don’t get it and I swear to God I don’t understand WHAT he sees in the game. 

So I asked him.

“It’s the strategy” he tells me.

“Do you know those pitching coaches will watch one hitter from an opposing team for hundreds of hours,

HUNDREDS OF HOURS,

in order to properly coach their pitcher against the hitter.”

“Hmmm” I thought.

Now THERE’S a man who needs a life.

Some facts:

On August 22, 2007 the highest scoring modern game of baseball was played.  In game 1 of a double header the Texas Rangers beat the Baltimore Orioles at Baltimore by a score of 30-3!

The guy that posted that information on a site I visited recently then wrote

“My team may be ranked at the bottom this year, but they are AWESOME!”

That, my friends, is a man with very low aspirations.

He probably still lives with his parents and thinks HALO is real life warfare.

Okay-so a score of 30 is the highest.  Let’s see, each play takes about 20 seconds to complete, and frankly that’s if there’s an error and someone bobbles the ball. 

No, I’m not counting pitching as a “play.”  I know you purists are screaming.

COME ON!

It is ONE GUY MOVING HIS ARM.

To me that’s about as interesting as watching someone sitting on their porch waving at passing cars. 

There is NO sane woman in the world that will sit there and watch ONE GUY for five hours,

sit there and watch him move his arm,

 even if he moves it really, really fast,

 and think something cool is happening.

Let’s remember people.  You’re watching a game where a NO HITTER is one of the best things that can happen.

ABSOUTELY NO ONE MOVES…and people are screaming like they’ve hit the lottery.

Okay-so 20 seconds a play.  Let’s say each one of those 30 runs took 4 plays to make.  Probably an over the top exaggeration since at least one of those guys probably brought in a couple of runs when he actually connected with the ball. 

So that’s 120 plays, at 20 seconds each.  That means that over the course of a four or five hour game, something was actually happening,

I mean someone was moving more than his arm,

for about forty minutes.

FORTY MINUTES out of FIVE HOURS.

The rest of the time you’re basically eating hot dogs, drinking beer and yelling for some guy to throw you peanuts.

You’ve got to wonder about a sporting event where, as folklore has it,

the largest President ever in the history of the United States, William Taft, supposedly couldn’t stand it any longer and had to get up to stretch to wake up and everyone else said:

“hey THAT’s a good idea.”  so they stood up and stretched to wake up;

that moment speaks for itself.

Somebody must have recognized its value because they built it into the game.

I’ve said it before.

Watching baseball is like watching farming. 

Still, I have four boys so I understand that baseball is a part of my life.  We spend hours on the fields, hours practicing and hours talking about what went right and what went wrong.

The good news is after the game, I get to do the laundry. 

Now THAT’s exciting.

Parenting Tip of the Day:

Get your kids into sports.  It will teach them teamwork, leadership and how to deal with winning and losing.  If they join a team though, don’t let them quit.  It’s hard because honestly sometimes they will whine till the cows come home that they don’t’ want to get dressed or get ready.  But that’s all a part of it and they will learn that when they make a commitment, they have to live up to it.

“What’s Wrong With Mom?”

Sunday Afternoon (The scene):

      Four boys sitting on one couch looking down and playing their new DS games they purchased earlier in the day.

     Husband of four boys sitting in “his chair” (why do men have “a chair” anyway); looking down at his laptop.

     Mom walks in, sits down and literally as her butt touches the cushion:

——————————————————————————————–

Brother #1 (not looking up):

    “What’s for dinner mom?”

Mom:

     “Flank steak and roasted red potatoes.”

Brother #2 to Brother #1 (not looking up):

     “What did she say?”

Brother #1 to Brother #2:

     “Meat and potatoes.”

Brother #4 to Mom.

     “What kind of potatoes?”

Mom:

     “Roasted red potatoes.”

Brother #4 to Mom:

    “Do I like those?”

Mom:

    “Yes.”

Brother #2 to Brother #4:

    “What’d she say.”

Brother #4 to Brother #2:

    “Potatoes I like.”

Brother #2 to Mom:

    “Do I like those kind too Mom?”

Mom to Brother #2:

     “Yes, you like those kind.”

Brother #1 to Mom:

     “They’re not the kind I like are they mom?”

Mom to Brother #1:

     “I’m not sure you do like those kind Jake.”

Brother #1:

     “Oh Man.” (In that long drawn out “maaaaaaaaaaan” sort of way.)

Brother #3 to Brother #1 (without looking up)

    “What’s wrong?”

Brother #1 to Brother #3:

     “Mom’s making the kind of potatoes I don’t like for dinner.”

Brother #3 to Mom:

    “Do I like them mom.”

Mom (a little louder):

    “I DON’T KNOW IF YOU LIKE THEM BEN.  But those are the kind I’m making.”

Brother #4 to Mom:

    “Can’t you make French fries?”

Mom to Brother #4:

     “Yes, I COULD make French Fries, BUT I’m making roasted red potatoes!”

Brother #1 to Brother #4:

     “Huh?”

Brother #4 to Brother #1:

     “She won’t make us French Fries.”

Brother #1:

     “Oh man!”

Brother #2 to Mom (not looking up):

    “Can we have peaches?”

Mom to Brother #2:

    “Yes, if there are peaches you can have peaches.”

Brother #4 to Mom:

   “But I don’t like peaches.”

Mom to Brother #4:

    “Then you don’t have to HAVE peaches.”

Brother #3 to Mom:

    “Can’t we have mandarin oranges.”

Mom to Brother #3:

     “I DON’T CARE if you have mandarin oranges instead of peaches; it’s up to you.”

Brother #1 to Mom:

    “How about salad.  Are we having salad?”

—————————————————————————-

Husband to Mom:

    “Where you going?”

Mom to husband:

    “I’m going to watch TV in my room.”

Husband to Mom:

    “What’s for dinner?”

Mom to husband (Who is STILL looking down):

     “You’re kidding me, right?”

Brother #3 to Dad:

    “What’s wrong with Mom?”

Dad to Brother #3:

     “She’s a little edgy today.”

Brother #1 (without looking up):

     “What’d he say?”

Parenting Tip of the Day:

When they were little I started serving the boys spinach with ranch dressing.  It was “dark green lettuce” I told them.  Now they are very happy to “eat their spinach”.  (All except #4 who won’t eat ANYTHING other than meat and potatoes.)

The Life Cycle

“I killed it.”

 Well I guess I should say,

“We killed it.”

Not sure what the cause of death is officially, but it was a long time coming and the smell, once death was pronounced, the smell was awful. 

We had 22 good years together so I can’t complain.  How many things in your life do exactly what they’re supposed to do for 22 years? 

Oh sure, there were times it was overwhelming.  All the bending and lifting; crossing the line between dirty and clean over and over again. 

Nothing in my life has brought me such grief and such joy as that which I am now laying to rest.

Goodbye washer.

Goodbye dryer.

You’ve served our family well.  I don’t think it was the first 10 years that were too tough on you.  After all it was just the two of us. 

It was these past 12, all the itty bitty socks and t-shirts that became hundreds of pairs of sweat socks you repeatedly cycled around and around.  All the baby clothes laden with food spills and unspeakable matter, the description of which is too foul to print, spewed across the front and back.  All the candies you were forced to reduce to silver slivers of paper, slivers that became trapped in your vent; and of course the occasional red marker and game boy game that you sadly rotated to oblivion knowing they would never function correctly again.

The pain of watching your kids pull those small rubber bands that go on their braces from your inner workings; listening to them as they howled after realizing their favorite Pokémon card or DS game was destroyed in your rinse cycle. I’m sure it took its toll. 

We did share some times didn’t we?  Remember those hours upon hours of me folding clothes; me talking to you about how recently we’d just washed a pair of those exact same looking jeans.  My screaming exclamations of:

“THESE AREN’T EVEN DIRTY.”

or

“OH MY GOD; WHOSE ARE THESE?  THEY’RE DISGUSTING!”

As I stormed from the laundry room calling one boy or another, preaching what is now a well known sermon that we wear pants 2 or 3 times and underwear only once!

All the times, in the middle of the night, I came rushing in with sheets covered in whatever midnight body functions had shown themselves in one of the boys rooms.  Starting your soak cycle, filled with Clorox or any other germ killing detergent I had at the time. 

We can never get those times back can we?

You never complained. 

I bought your replacements yesterday.  They’ll be here next week, and the men in white jackets will take what is left of you to the recycle bin.

I asked Steve if we could keep you.  Maybe put you out in the yard and give the boys some screwdrivers and let them have at it.  It would have been hours of fun for them,

 and I sure would love to know where that yellow sweater went.

But I was overruled.  I think my husband worried that I’d want to start stacking up our used tires in the yard, and maybe get a chicken or two.

I don’t have much faith the two shiney, white, brand new replacements coming from Maytag will live up to your reputation.  How could they?  They’re so young and naïve.  With all their fancy cycles and steam clean options.  I won’t be able to share the same stories and midnight visits with them I did with you.  After all, the boys are older now and I really don’t have the emotional energy to invest in another relationship like the one we shared.

In retrospect, I probably hung on too long.

Even after you wouldn’t stop cycling when your lid was lifted,

I kept you. 

Even after your cycles wouldn’t stop without manually turning your dials to “off”,

I kept you.

Even after your tub would slam so violently from side to side during the spin cycle that I could watch you dance out into the hallway,

I kept you.

After all, you still cleaned the clothes, and well; frankly,

I’m pretty cheap.

But once I heard you screaming; screaming so loudly I couldn’t run you through your drills and not wake the boys; when the smell of rubber was so pungent it burned my nostrils. 

I knew it was time for us to part. 

Enjoy retirement dear friend.  You have served our family well and you will be missed.  I just hope your replacements are ready to be put through the wringer.

Parenting Tip of the Day:

If you have many children, that means many, many socks.  To keep them straight mark their socks with a laundry pen when you get home from buying them so you can match them to each other and to the child who owns them.  I used the “dot” system; one dot for the first born, two for the second and so on.  That did two things.  I was able to couple socks when they came out of the laundry and send them off to their rightful owners; and I could also immediately pinpoint which son thought it was okay to leave their dirty, smelly socks on the dinner table.

Kid Speak

For posterity: odd words and phrases: and definitions of those words/phrases, used routinely in the Flett household.

1. Goopies. (Pronounced: goo peas), n.

 Those things you clean out from the inside and outside corners of your eyes in the morning or after being out at the baseball fields.

Common Usage

“Okay boys; clean your goopies.”

2. No Poke Zone. (Pronounced: no po oh ke z oh n eh) n.

That effect created by crossing your arms over your chest; flattening out your hands and holding them in Cleopatra fashion over the portion of your shoulder just above your armpit.

3. Worst Poke Ever (pronounced: wurst po oh ke eh ver) n.

The execution of a successful poke in the area described above when said area is not protected by the successful execution of the “no poke zone”.

Common Usage

Pokee after being poked:

“Oh no, that was the “worst poke ever”.

4. Coner (pronounced: ko ner) n.

 The act of shaping your hand in an “O” shape and successfully placing that “O” on the target’s chin.

5. No Cone Zone (pronounced: no kone z oh n eh) n.

Target of incoming coner is successful at shaping their thumb and pointer in an “L” shape (think the “loser sign”) and placing that “L” directly in front of the chin, with the thumb running under the chin, to stop any incoming coner assaults.

6. No Cone, No Poke Zone: (common pronunciation) v. n.

The simultaneous execution of a no cone zone and a no poke zone. Think Cleopatra with her arms folded over her chest and her head turned with her chin and resting in the “L” shape of her left hand which is in turn resting on her chest just above the armpit.

7. Best Bite in the Universe. (Common pronunciation) n.

The bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that is formed at the “neck” of two slices of bread where the crust doubles around on itself near the top. This is especially significant if the sandwich is made with white bread (which mommy hardly ever buys).

Common Usage

Boy about to take a bite yells to his brothers:

“Best bite in the universe.”

 To wit all of the boys say:

“Lucky”.

8. The Brothers: (common pronunciation) plural noun.

Term used by any one brother in search of any one or more brothers in the family.

Common Usage

“Mom. Where’s the brothers?”

9. Fix it: (figs iht) n.

An obsessive need to rectify something you know isn’t right.

Common examples include but are not limited to:

• Needing to crack all of your knuckles after one accidentally cracks

 

•  The compelling act of cleaning out aforementioned goopies when they are brought up.

 

• Not being able to sleep unless the bottoms of the sheets are tucked in. 

 

• Needing to feel pressure at the ends of your fingers. 

 

•  Repeatedly restarting your prayers with mom till you both say your parts perfectly.

 10.  “Roughed Up” (pronunciation: ruffed up) adj.

Something that is not right and should be corrected as in “messed up.”

Common Usage

“That’s roughed up!”

This is really a Flett Family experiment.  We want to see if this new term will catch on in America and spread around the United States.  Kind of how “turkey” or “phat” must have gotten started.  Keep an ear out.

11. Fluffer Nutter: (common pronunciation) v.

The act performed with the brothers after they are tucked in, where mother (it must be the mother) lifts the cover or covers and fluffs them down on the occupant of the bed. It is best if the occupant is compelled to “pose” their legs while the blanket is in the air.

 

Well I feel tons better now that I’ve gotten those written down for the official record. I’d been so worried that I’d forget some of the fun things we do that I was having “fix its”.

Parenting Tip of the Day:

Lighten up and be goofy with your kids. The boys recently had their spring photos taken at school. I told them they could do funny faces in the photo. So there they were, dressed up and making goofy faces to the photographer for their “official” spring photo. A mom came out of the room where the photos were being taken laughing and saw me waiting with the next class to go in.

“Did you tell them they could do that?” she asked me.

 I smiled and nodded.

“You know” she said, “I had my son in tears this morning because we couldn’t get his hair just right. I really need to lighten up.”

“Well,”  I thought to myself

“light sure is easier to carry.”

Thanks Daddy!

I recently finished reading “The Glass Castle” by Jeanette Walls. It is a wonderful memoire by a woman who lived a very challenging childhood and came through the rigors of having an incredibly dysfunctional set of parents. Despite having a mother and father who were, at least by today’s standards, very neglectful of their children’s basic needs, Ms. Walls loved and loves them very much. Her stories are, at times, painful to read, but she shares them with a nonchalance that emphasizes how forgiving children can be. I was particularly touched by the fact that her last and longest “home”, really a broken down shack on the edge of the town of Walsh, West Virginia; is spitting distance from where my family is from.

 

Well, not me, but my mother and father were both born and raised in Bluefield, West Virginia. That part of the country is incredibly poor and “The Glass Castle” brought back my memories of visiting my grandparents, and aunts and uncles that lived there. Bluefield, like Walsh, is a coal mining town. Both of my grandfathers worked in the mines and eventually contracted black lung. Every one of my father’s siblings, except one I believe, died from some form of cancer or accidental death (of course Aunt Sadie and Aunt Jean are still alive God bless them-but even Sadie is a cancer survivor).

 

We lived in Jersey from the time I was born; so for two weeks every summer we’d visit the Austins and the Barretts in Bluefield.  I remember going to town and how run down everything seemed. The roads were either not paved or were cracking, and all of the homes ran on coal. My Maw Maw Barrett (isn’t It weird that we called our grandparents by their last names) had a huge garage type space that was filled with shiney, black, lumps of coal for the winter. I couldn’t walk anywhere barefoot that my feet didn’t turn black.

 

The trips were always fun for us and I remember some of my cousins, whom I thought all talked funny, would run around in tattered dresses, barefoot, hair knotted and flying in the wind. Mom would always make us dress nicely when we visited our aunts and uncles; particularly Aunt Patsy.

 

As I reflect back on things, mom would always save Aunt Patsy’s visit for the end of the trip. She’d dress up in a  dressy outfit, a bag that matched her shoes and bright red lipstick to finish it off. My younger sister Lisa and daddy and I would all pile into the car and head into the city. Patsy’s house was at the top of a hill that was on one of the city streets. You had to climb probably 30 concrete steps with no railing, to get to the porch and when you got there one or more little kid, my cousins, would come running out to greet us; looking like they hadn’t showered in weeks.

 

Most times daddy wouldn’t go up there and I realize now that mom dreaded it but it was something she felt she had to do. She was the oldest after all, and had responsibilities to her siblings. I remember how bad the house smelled. It was dark and musty; hardly any furniture and nothing in the way of drinks to offer or share. Patsy was married to Jimmy and Jimmy was as skinny as Aunt Patsy was fat. I think he got a disability check and that was the only way they really had anything.

 

We’d stay with Aunt Patsy for a while.  She was really too big to even get up and move around the house while we were there.  After a bit mom would say it was time to leave. She’d always reach into Aunt Patsy’s pocket with some amount of money to leave as a gift.  Patsy would protest slightly and then just smile her black toothy grin. When we’d get back to where dad was waiting with the car, mom would put her arm up on the window and rub her head.

 

“Poor Patsy” mom would say.

 

And then the rest of our visit she’d break into tears now and again.

 

That’s how things were in Bluefield. I think dad knew he had to get his family out of there but daddy only had a 6th grade education. In fact of my father’s siblings, only two out of nine ever graduated high school. It just wasn’t that important when there was money to be made in the mines. So daddy started driving a truck for a company called Smith Transfer. Eventually Mr. Smith made him a manager and finally moved daddy up to New Jersey to run his northern terminal. Daddy was the night manager so he’d go into work at 4:45 at night and come home around 3 a.m.

 

To make ends meet he would get up at 5:30 a.m. and drive a school bus.  During the day he’d work odd jobs doing carpentry or paving driveways.  He’d work till his afternoon bus run and then come home and sleep for about 30 minutes after dinner.  By 4:45 it was time for him to start all over again. That was his routine. He did what he had to do to keep his family out of that cycle of poverty.

 

I remember how proud he was when I started college, although I wasn’t really aware of what it meant to him. Daddy didn’t get to see me graduate college. He died of massive heart failure when I was in my second semester of my senior year. He was 56 years old; way to young to leave us.

 

Daddy got us out of Bluefield, but it literally cost him his life.

 

Parenting Tip of the Day: Share your stories, start a blog or write your kids letters. My boys never met my dad; but they know about him and what he did for me and my family. I always tell them, the harder they work, the luckier they’ll get.

Psychotic

“Hey mom?” the seven year bellowed at me from the TV room,

“What does psychotic mean.” 

Hmm, I thought.  What is that kid watching?

“Well it means someone who’s kind of lost their mind and gone a little crazy.  Like they’re not grounded in reality anymore.”  I hollered back.

“HUH?  he replied quizzically.

“It means someone that maybe doesn’t think right anymore.  Someone who can’t control themselves or say things that make sense anymore.  Do you get it now?”  I said.

“No,” he said, about ready to give up.

“DANNY,” I tensed up, “you know how mommy gets once a month when I tell you I have PMS.”

“Yes” he said.

“THAT’S how someone is when they’re psychotic.”  I said.

“OHHHHHHHHHHH” he sang. 

“Thanks mom!”

“Not a problem,” I replied.

Yet another moment of complete understanding between a mother and son.

Parenting Tip of the Month:  I always tell the boys when I’m having a bad day and need to spend some time by myself.  I want them to know it’s okay to not want to be around people once in a while as long as you’re up front that you’re not going to be very good company.  Now, as they’re older, when they’re not having a good day, they are up front with me and go to their rooms or stay by themselves until they’re ready for company.  With so many people living in one house, knowing when someone isn’t able to be social is a must.

I Never Knew Her Name

Many of you may have already read this but my moratorium for republishing it is over now (yes I actually got paid for this one), so I wanted to put it out there.  I submitted the following in response to a Editor’s Query.  The questions was:

“Tell us about a time a total stranger made a lasting impression.”

My response: which I think every single mother can connect with:

There are some days when everything goes right.  But I’m a mother of four children, and, honestly, those days are not the rule.  When things get crazy and I am about to lose my mind, I remember the words of a stranger after a particularly difficult outing.

At the time, I had a 5-year-old, a 3-year-old, an 18-month old and a new-born.  I won’t relate the gory details; let’s just say that at the end of our family hike that morning, my four sweet boys were all in their car seats screaming, and I was standing behind our SUV, throwing strollers and yelling.  Finally, I slammed the door shut and sat on the truck’s rear bumper with my head hanging down, bemoaning my abysmal parenting skills.

Just then, two women appeared and started getting into their car.  I looked up, a bit ashamed, and said,

“Very tough day.”

They smiled back, and, with no condescension, one said,

“Don’t worry; there’ll be other days.”

Her comment didn’t judge my mothering skills or my children or offer advice on what I was doing wrong.  It was a purely kind thing to say, a statement of hope and perspective that reminded me that no matter how tough things can get, there will be times that make it all worthwhile.

Parenting Tip of the Day: 

Now that my boys are older, our separations are a bit easier so the use of the Hershey kiss jar in my previous post isn’t necessary.  Still, after a holiday like Valentine’s Day I stock up on small stuffed animals when they are marked down to a quarter or so.  Before I leave (yes I’ve had a few separations from them) I spray them with my perfume and leave them on the boy’s beds.  I’m told the squeals they let out when they discover their gifts at bed time are truly heartwarming.  Sometimes I even leave one for my hubby.

All’s Fair…

I remember when they were little guys I worried about leaving them for even a minute.  I was sure they’d tumble down the stairs, tumble off the couch, fall from their high chair or choke on their applesauce.  In any one of those scenarios I was SURE they’d kill themselves.

I imagined the days that I would have four relatively functioning human beings in the house that could chew and swallow without monitoring, walk up and down stairs while holding onto the railing, and get up and down from the couch like they were pros. 

They can do all those things at this point in their lives and I realize I don’t worry they will kill themselves, I worry that they will kill EACH OTHER.

Did I KNOW that if placed properly the cushion from the couch made a great sled to slide down the stairs?

“NO.”

Did I KNOW that if two brothers each pick up a leg of a third and start swirling in unison that the exact WRONG thing to do was yell:

“STOP THAT?”

(Because they WILL stop that and boy number three will go flying head first through the air to land squarely on the only rock for 100 yards.)

“NO.”

Did I KNOW that despite various warnings to quit playing so hard, giving the obligatory 1 to 3 countdown and then standard:

“Don’t make me come over there.”

Did I know that those steps would not impact their decision to use a slingshot and a rock as an artillery piece to remove their sworn enemy brother from the swing set?

Again I say:

“No.”

 I was raised with one other sister; a sister.  Now certainly there was some physical interaction that might not have been um, ladylike between my sister and I, but for the most part we really didn’t mess with each other on that very visceral level.

We were sneakier.

We would start fighting and then run and hide as our mom hunted us down with an egg turner. 
THAT was fun.

We would spit secretly in the others milk and then smile like a cat eating a canary as the unsuspecting sister took a big ole gulp of the white stuff.

THAT was fun.

We would figure out what tiny little thing, filled with nuance, would bug the HELL out of the other one but look perfectly innocent to our parents and if we were really lucky would actually get our parents angry at the victim and not the silent attacker.

THAT was a fair fight for my sister and me and

that is what we chicks bring to adolescence, perhaps even adulthood. 

Even today when my husband and I are fussing I’ll do something I KNOW will bug him to death, but not be grounds for divorce.  Trust me with him it isn’t too difficult, since the way the toilet paper rolls over the holder is a point of concern. 

When we were newly married I would often get up first and find something in the room to move just a few inches to the right or left.  I’d watch as he went through his bleary eyed morning routine somehow knowing SOMETHING wasn’t right.  He’d sit in his chair visibly uncomfortable and would finally with a look of relief stand up and fix whatever it was he’d found out of place oblivious to any hand his loving wife may have had in his torment. 
Just those few moments of discomfort were enough for me to feel “even” if in my mind he’d done something I’d seen as unreasonable the night before.    I’d sit there hugging my legs on the couch just about ready to BURST with delight.

Passive aggressive?

Maybe.  What would he prefer, a slingshot and a rock?

He’s just lucky he doesn’t drink milk.

Parenting Tip of the Day:
     Small children find it difficult to measure time when we’re away overnight.  If you are going on a trip where you’ll be away from your children, consider leaving them a treat per night in a jar they can see (perhaps a Hershey’s kiss per night for example).  As they eat their treat, they’ll be able to see how many are left and can understand that when their treats are gone (at the rate of one per day dad), mom will be home.  An alternate idea is to have marbles in an “Away” jar and each night they can move one marble into a “Home” jar.   It’ll give them more of a sense of control and you can answer the “When will you be home mom” with a concrete answer like “When all the kisses are gone from the jar mommy left for you.”