My husband and I are at war… The War of the Lights. This war has waged on for over five years. I will fight until victory.
I sat at the kitchen counter yesterday morning, working on a draft of some writing. Writer’s notebook out, laptop open, coffee at my side. My husband sat on the stool next to me and opened his laptop, too. Time to get some work done before the kids wake up. Click. He turns on the light over our heads. It was a sneak attack; I didn’t expect it. I ignore the unnecessary light and keep writing. Several minutes later, he gets up to get a drink. Click. He turns on another light as he nears the refrigerator. He has a combat plan, and I am on the front lines. I keep quiet, waiting for his next move. He walks over to sit down. Click. He turns on the light in the eat-in kitchen portion of the room where nobody is sitting. I am under siege. I glance over at him, and he smiles sweetly. His tactics are subtle. He advances slowly.
After a bit, we hear the girls waking up, so he heads upstairs. I charge. Click, click, click. I turn off all the lights in the kitchen. (Which is perfectly fine because it is the middle of the morning.) I retreat quickly back to my seat. That was a close battle, no winner declared.
Later that same evening, I go grocery shopping while my husband gives the girls a bath. I return home, and the girls are clean and in their pajamas. I head upstairs to put my shoes away. Every light is on. Every one. Our bedroom, the bathroom, the hallway, Katie’s room, Maddie’s room. I’ve been ambushed. I shield my eyes and walk from room to room. Click, click, click, click.
The War of the Lights wages on…