My wife has gotten on me a lot lately about interrupting her. She says that I constantly do it and that it concerns her, this terrible habit I seem to have picked up since the birth of our son.
Before Roscoe, conversations were simple and relatively intuitive:
Her: Do you want to go out and eat tonight?
We were even firing on all cylinders through more complex conversations:
Her: Where would you like to go and eat tonight?
Her: Mill Town, then.
Now, however, she gets about three words in before I interrupt. And it drives her crazy.
Her: Do you want-
Me: -to see who can spit the farthest?
Her: No. Jesus. Why do you keep interrupting me?
Several reasons, actually. My wife is frequently distracted. Sometimes she’s tired. And if the little guy’s in the room, he’s the center of attention. Rightfully so. But as a result, and with all due respect, it’s flipping impossible to have a conversation with her. She trails off and mutters like a homeless guy on the subway.
Her: Do you want…oooh, look at his little ears…so cute. Do you…can you hear me with your little ears? Do…it’s so busy at work. Do you want…and he’s got a little nose and a little chin! Forgot to order checks. Do you…what time is it? I like blue.
Minutes later, still hanging on to what seems like a random string of words and phrases. Do I want what?
After months of this, I learned the fastest way to get my wife to the end of a complete sentence is to interrupt. Because I’m never even remotely near the ballpark when I attempt to finish her thought (which irritates her even more), she immediately corrects me.
I’m know I’m going to get a little grief, but it’s worth it.
Her: We should get-
Me: -portraits made. Semi-nude, lying on a bear skin rug!
Her: No! What’s wrong with you? We should get milk.