Rich Man, Poor Man

My husband is trying to freeze me out. Actually, he's insisting this winter that we keep the house in the mid- 60-degree range, so we can afford to pay our heating bill and still have enough money for formula and diapers. I should understand, but, instead, I moan about walking on icy floors and remind him that the baby books say we should keep Lily warm. He points out that Eskimo babies do OK in the cold. I reply, with just as much sarcasm, that perhaps he should slaughter a seal to make baby a coat.

Having grown up in a household that relied on food stamps, I equate not being able have the things I want (say, heat) with poverty - something I left behind. But Jason grew up in a middle-class home and equates spending money too freely with running the risk of future poverty. It's an enduring tug of war in our marriage: Jason is the Jack Sprat of spending, and I'm the wife. He's no miser, just cautious; at the same time, he has champagne taste, so when he finally does buy himself a treat, its price can eclipse the savings from his past frugality. Meanwhile, I was born with the bargain-hunting gene but routinely render my discounts nil by buying three bargains at once.

This difference first became clear when we registered for wedding gifts at a cookware store - I come from Tupperware people - that I had never heard of before Jason. I had also never heard of registering and was stunned to learn that you can tell people to buy you things, and they will. As we browsed, I'd say, "This baking dish looks nice," and he'd wrinkle his nose: "I'd rather have a Le Creuset." I'd hold up a Calphalon pan, and he'd say, "It's good, but it's no All-Clad."

That was fine when we were spending other people's money. But when it was our cash getting spent, the stakes were raised. Idealistic pair, we combined our finances into one checking account for everything - which created tensions. I remember coming home once from Filene's Basement, proud to have snagged a Kenneth Cole jacket for $75. Jason quietly asked whether I really needed a caramel- colored bomber jacket that would be out of style in a year. Conversely, I rarely questioned his purchases, due to their infrequency, but when he returned from a trip to Montreal with a motorcycle jacket that cost as much as the monthly rent on our last apartment, it took me a few days to muster much enthusiasm for how great he looked in it.

We found ourselves in a kind of barter system, trading purchases like chits. And in periods when one of us outearned the other, all notions of togetherness were replaced by snarky remarks like "You're spending my money on what?" Understandably, when we went through a rough patch in our marriage, my first response was to open a separate checking account. This turned out to be a brilliant move: We each became accountable for our own spending, and even when we got back together, our accounts remained divorced.

But now we have a baby. Our resources end up pooled anyway - creating a new forum for the same old struggle. I foolishly stopped by the infant section of Filene's Basement to kill time one afternoon, and before I knew it, I was headed home with two adorable outfits - which Jason predictably said we couldn't afford. But when we later went hunting for Lily's first holiday dress, he couldn't even see the sale items once he'd been blinded by the beauty of a costly pink-satin ensemble that he said was "so Jackie O." I agreed it was too expensive, and since it also made the sale stuff look crappy, we bought no dress at all.

This is the part where I'm supposed to explain how we've come to a compromise in our money tussles. But the truth is, there are some battles you just keep waging. He doggedly turns the thermostat down to 60 every time we leave the house; I briefly blast it at 70 when I come home. And I kept my eye on that pink-satin number until it was marked down and then bought it after all. Jason - true to form - gasped, "You shouldn't have." Then he sighed with pleasure. "Isn't it gorgeous?"