Yesterday I came home from work to see a bed that was made. As husband was still sleeping when I left for work, I was certain it wasn’t I who made the bed. This left Robby or the dogs. As adorably messy as it was put together, I still went with the slightly more logical approach and decided husband made the bed. But husband doesn’t make the bed. Ever. I had to call him to make sure our dogs didn’t become canine geniuses overnight. Sure enough, the boy was the maker of said bed. He told me, “You said it was your pet peeve when the bed wasn’t made.” (Wouldn’t it be better if the dogs HAD made the bed? Since it’s a pet peeve and all? HA?!) I remembered then, telling him this over a rant of mine last week. I had just come home from work and he was home all day on a two week vacation. The house was, in my opinion, a disaster. In his opinion, he had cleaned a lot that day. Again, In my humble opinion, there was crap everywhere and I clean every-day even after a hard day’s work and you were home all day and you couldn’t even pick your beer can from last night up and YOU NEVER MAKE THE BED AND IT’S MY PET PEEVE, DAMMIT! Oh,yes. The trials and tribulations of living with the opposite sex for over three years. Husband took most of this in with mild amusement, as he usually does. I do not share his calm personality. Though I would like to maybe sometimes murder him for always being so level-headed and able to laugh things off when I just want to fight and scream, I know it’s among the things that make us so compatible.
You may be wondering why I’m telling you a story about me being such a mean wife. Well. Lately,I’ve been thinking about what we’ve carried with us into our relationship.
Because really, it’s never just two people with clean slates starting a life together. It’s all of the stuff, good and bad, that has been picked up from so many others along the way.
My need for a clean house stemming from my dad’s extremely organized personality. My reaction to unclean house stemming from growing up in a household where screaming at a person who is right next to you was the only way to work it out. Robby maybe being slightly spoiled growing up as the baby of the family. All of the times my childhood self gave my poor little brother bloody noses, simply for being the spoiled baby of the family. Our occasionally butting heads because I’m the initiative-driven, get-things-done oldest and he’s the laid back, take-it-easy youngest. Him telling me I take on too much and me yelling at him because he doesn’t make the bed. My doubts and fears of relationships and his completely optimistic view of love conquering all. His past of immaturity and partying too hard and mine of selfishness and naivety. The mistakes we’ve made and those who have hurt us and and the hurting we’ve done to others now belonging to not just one person, but two.
And somehow, amazingly, the pieces of us that we’ve acquired from others seem to make the two of us fit together just right.
He calms me down when I’m frazzled. I remind him when he’s forgetful. He listens to every word I say when I’m upset, and this makes me realize yelling isn’t even necessary. He hears me at any volume. I encourage him to seize the day. He encourages me to slow down and take time to enjoy the day. My imperfections and our bills surely remind him that marriage is no fairytale; His random kisses, loving words and gentle spirit remind me that our marriage is so different than others that have made me pessimistic. All of the hurting and the mistakes before show us what we don’t want from this life together now.
His making the bed for me is a small indication of such a big thing. We are learning together, growing together, and working through our separate pasts together, one little kink at a time. We’re molding what’s been given to us and passed down from others into our own dysfunctional version of happily ever after. Bed made and all.