Think less superior, more complex.

Written by Em

I honestly do not know what I would do without “The Today Show.”

I wouldn’t know how to think about politics (shave please Chuck Todd), I wouldn’t know if my parents were getting rain in Florida (although, 9 times out of 10 Al misses the mark), and I certainly wouldn’t know that the majority of married women suffer from “Superior Wife Syndrome.”

Yes, this is an actual book, by Carin Rubenstein – check it out yourself (after finishing here of course) at The Superior Wife Syndrome dot com.

In my parents’ day, I believe the term was “Nag,” or “Fishwife,” or “Mrs. Olsen.” The first time I clearly remember my father cursing was when he called one of my mom’s friends a “Class A bitch.”

Shock! (she totally was)

But evidently, today, treating your husband like the idiot you think he is, is considered a Syndrome.

Who knew? (Well, me, because I adore Matt “when is my contract up, again?” Lauer.)

Now, I have yet to read the book, and frankly, I probably never will. I’m not passing judgement. I visited the site and found some helpful information, but to be honest, it’s not really applicable to me. I’m not tooting my own horn, I just watched my parents, and took notes.

To this day, my mother insists on loading the dishwasher “her way.” So much so, that my father no longer bothers to try – sigh “I’ll just get it all wrong.” Oh yeah Dad, work. it.


Hubs could lick our utensils clean, and I’d be happy. I’m not a chore snob – I’ll take any help I can get. Unless he leaves freshly dried clothes in a mangled pile. Fire and brimstone will commence.

However, just to make sure I’m doing an OK job, I shouted the loaded question to Hubs – “Am I a Superior Wife, darling?”

Answer – “Of course! You’re the best!” without a hint of sarcasm, mind you.

Now in his defense, he thought I meant “do I rock?” not “do I utilize my purse zipper pockets to keep your testicles nice and safe?”

I guess his answer was a good one in either case.

I have to admit though, I do suffer from a minor case of “Superior Mother Syndrome.” And not the “I rock” kind either. I mean the “you-might-be-their-father-but-I-gave-them-life” kind.

For example: any given Saturday morning, unless there’s an early soccer game, our routine involves a little man-on-man defense with the kids – Hubs in charge of Oldest. I get Youngest. I can’t help it that Oldest likes to get up before 7. Did I mention Youngest might power through until 9?


He’s like his Mama in so many ways, including his tendency to ease into his day if so allowed. I can hear him on the monitor, reading his books that I left on the edge of his bed or discovering that one Hot Wheels I hid under his pillow – give him 30 minutes, and he’s a happier kid.

I know this, why? Because I’m his soulmate.

This habit actually makes Hubs antsy. He’ll casually walk through the bedroom, me still snuggled under covers, Netbook in lap – “Did you hear him?”

“Yes, babe, give him a couple of minutes.”

“Well, he might get mad.”

“No, babe, he likes to have some quiet time.”

“Well, I’m just saying…he’s be chattering for a while.”

This conversation usually ends up with a “fine!,” and a flourish of sheets as I huff out of bed and stumble upstairs, only to be greeted with a grumpy “Not yet Mama!!”

I love coming down with my smug mug – see, I know him better.

I know it’s not a healthy attitude, but it is one I find myself wearing on occasion – like during the dance that is getting everyone out the door in a good mood, or charming Oldest to start his homework, or negotiating with Youngest to finish his PKU formula.

I have the touch, because frankly, I’m lucky enough to be around them 24/7. And don’t doubt it, there is a fine art to maneuvering kids into a car without one crying over something completely ridiculous.

Not that Hubs isn’t an incredibly involved and wonderful father. He totally is. Yet, on those times when he does something completely out of the ordinary and the Boys totally embrace it, I feel somewhat on the outside – this is supposed to be my turf.

Then I just feel played – why don’t they do that with me?!

I guess Mother Superior I am not. More like Sucker Extraordinaire.

Fine with me. I look horrible in black.

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