Let's not talk about it

We had one recently.

One child needed to find a tie to wear on a field trip to the symphony. Another needed her hair done for picture retakes. Forms had to be located. All of the kindergartner's clean underwear was in the dryer in the basement.

Add the element of a ticking clock, because everyone has to be dressed, fed and out the door to catch a bus and make it to work on time, and it's a pressure cooker of stress. In that sort of chaos, requests for help can sound a little like demands. Simple things like, "Can you get the underwear?" followed closely by "Can you find the form and put it in her backpack" can feel like a barrage of marching orders.

"You can look for it yourself! You don't have to be so bossy!"

Foul play. Out of bounds.

Naturally, I reacted like it was Don Denkinger calling it in Game 6. Doors were slammed.

There is a difference between being bossy and barely clinging to sanity while asking for help. Just as there is a difference between emphatic speaking and yelling. It would behoove spouses to learn the difference.

Before we headed out the door, he realized there may have been an overreaction involved and apologized. But, I was still furious.

I replayed the incident for my editor when I arrived at work, still stung by the injustice of it. She said maybe he and I needed to talk about the deeper issues involved. Maybe there's built-up resentment that should be addressed, she said. Well, of course there's resentment. We've been married a decade and are raising young children. Doesn't the third wheel of resentment occasionally surface in even the healthiest of relationships?

During the commute home I thought about why the accusation upset me so much and why I was unable to graciously accept the apology that followed shortly after. I wanted more than an apology. I wanted to be understood.

Maybe we did need to talk about the deeper issues here. The Talk did not go as planned. It escalated a small skirmish into a full-blown battle.

In our confessional, navel-gazing culture, do we still know how to not talk about it?

Perhaps it will be to the chagrin of therapists and self-help gurus everywhere, but there are times when "talking" becomes a litany of score keeping and accusations. I'm sure there are those skilled communicators who are able to resolve every issue with a rational, tolerant discussion. And, then there are the rest of us.

We are wrong to pathologize the inevitable conflict and tension that surfaces in most marriages.

All spouses feel unappreciated at times. The list of responsibilities and chores can seem endless, especially when children have schedules busier than our own. Undoubtedly, there would be a substantial drop in marital dissatisfaction if everyone could afford a live-in maid, cook and personal assistant. Sometimes, all it takes to bury the hatchet is a smile.

Still, each of us needs a safety valve. I have three sisters.

There's been interesting research indicating that those of us who have sisters tend to be happier. Professor Deborah Tannen suggests in an essay in the New York Times that this is because we talk to sisters frequently, and they listen to the seemingly trivial details of our lives. That sounds about right. They know when to indulge us. They know when to call us out.

So, when I was stewing about the Cold War emerging in my house, it was fortuitous that one of my sisters sent me an instant message on Facebook. She punctuated my rapid-fire rant about the disastrous morning with appropriate parts wit and commiseration.

Pick your battles, she said. We all go through the same thing. Get over it, she wrote.

She called the next day to find out if I still hated her brother-in-law. And, then she chided me: You're so wrapped up in your Cold War, you're missing out on the nuclear war going on around here. I was instructed to call another sister for details on the latest family sagas. Indeed, I had been missing out. I had been heard, my grievances aired, my feelings validated and my troubles put into perspective.

The fight that seemed so intractable a few days before was largely forgotten.

I never apologized or accepted an apology. But, the next time I need a hand, I'll remember to toss in a please.

And offer a grateful smile in return.