So for the longest time, my husband had this idyllic picture of my life growing up. Mainly because I truly feel that way; my parents loved us, and I’d do just about anything for them. I worked on the family farm pretty much constantly from age 12 to 25, when I finally moved out.
The circumstances surrounding my leaving weren’t awesome, and it was what first tipped my husband off about my family life there. He’d assumed my parents would be supportive in the situation we found ourselves in; I knew they’d be shocked, horrified, and angry, and I didn’t want to tell them I’d fallen pregnant. Keep in mind I was 25 at the time and with my committed partner, but my parents’ reaction was pretty much what I’d anticipated it to be.
From there, it was all pretty much downhill. As a prime example, I’ll relate something that happened pretty recently. While watching a popular television show in which two naked people attempt to survive in some inhospitable wilderness in some remote corner of the globe, we both winced in sympathy when the female participant displayed legs absolutely forested with bug bites.
At first, my skin crawled, and then I reconsidered. It wasn’t that bad, honestly- I used to get a rash of bites come summer time when living with my parents because the outdoor/indoor cats would catch fleas. It was always a little while before the flea medication took effect, and especially before it was discovered, my body was a minefield of flea bites. Blankets and carpets would be black with the little fuckers, and it became standard procedure to nuke all bedding in the drier.
When relating this to my husband, i mistakenly assumed this was a common experience. His family were also farmers, and his mom had an abundance of (poorly housebroken) cats. While at first disbelieving, and then revolted when I continued my insistence, he told me that no, it was not common for one’s house to be a hotbed of fleas and the people therein to suffer themselves to be covered in bites.
This sort of thing has happened periodically over the course of our relationship. I’d mention something in passing, get a disgusted reaction, and now I’m wary of offering any stories of my former home.
The real problem is that it hasn’t helped my husband’s opinion of my parents. He hasn’t liked them since I moved in with him, and their actions (coupled with my sister’s) hasn’t seemed to help. I guess while it’s normal to me, it isn’t for him, but I still love my family regardless.
Is there some way I can try to mend this?
*tl;dr: * My husband really doesn’t like my family from my stories I tell- which are told factually and even fondly, because I love my family. I feel like my life growing up was lovely and peaceful, and I don’t consider things like flea bites to have ruined anything. Can someone explain why he’s upset so I can fix it?
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