|One day in and 'the Shed' is already expanding again (sigh)...|
Lest you think I was exaggerating my distress over the whole 'cleaner incident' the other day, let me just make one thing clear.
I WAS NOT.
Perhaps there are women out there who are quite happy to potter about in a messy, toy-strewn creche - I mean home - complete with freshly laundered pants drying on radiators and the contents of last night's supper on the kitchen floor. But I am not one of them (despite the alarming frequency with which my home resembles the aforementioned hell hole).
Mess makes me depressed. It always has. My mother still tells the story of how when I was a little girl I was often to be found in her walk-in closet arranging her myriad of shoes into perfect rows of paired up prettiness. That's just who I am.
So you can imagine how distressing it is living in a predominantly male household where 'tidiness' comes right after 'must remember to empty dishwasher' and 'replace toilet roll' in order of importance.
And fair enough I suppose. What four and seven year old boys are going to take delight in helping keep a room clean? (Not unless I can magic myself into some sort of all singing and dancing modern day Mary Poppin's figure complete with requisite singing mice...or is that Cinderella?)
And the husband of course has little if any interest in our home outside the dining room, which he has pretty much taken over as his 'shed'. We jokingly (lately with slightly less mirth and more annoyance on my part) refer to it as such because it's where all his STUFF (and believe me, for a guy, he has a LOAD of stuff) ends up: various guitars, electronic equipment, random bicycle parts, tool kits, commemorative knick knacks (three beer festival pint glasses anyone?), empty tea cups, odd socks, old hard drives, cameras, shoes, clothes....you get the picture.
Yesterday with a zeal which surprised even me, (second trimester anyone?) I ventured into the 'Room of Doom' (more on that later) grabbed the biggest box I could find, tore down the stairs and proceeded to downsize all the husbands possessions I could see into said box. With a pride I haven't experienced since finally mastering the world's yummiest lemon and poppyseed loaf, I proudly stepped back and gazed happily at my handiwork. Result! I had my beloved dining room back and now instead of a shed masquerading as a dining room, I realised that I had magically compressed said shed into a 12 x 16 inch container. Brilliant.
(Now, regarding the 'Room of Doom', it's actually a third bedroom masquerading as yet another indoor shed. All manner of things lost, forgotten and missing can be found inside. Generally I find that keeping the door shut allows me to believe that it doesn't exist and causes no real anxiety when I pass. So for all intents and purposes at present we live in a rather spacious two-bed home. Suits me. I wouldn't be surprised if one day many months from now I open it to find squatters residing inside, or someone having a car boot sale out the window...but I digress)
The husband is less than impressed (okay, downright offended) that his 'shed' is no more and that all his 'play things' (ie. most important things in the world) have been crammed into a green plastic storage box. He does not share my glee at being able to see, let alone use our lovely Habitat hardwood dining table again, or allowing the children to start up play dates again on account of not being horrified of their parents entering our home.
The irony is that I have way more STUFF than the husband. I can't even admit to myself let alone the world at large, how many pairs of shoes I own, lovely leather bags I have hidden away, armfuls of jewelry and scarves I possess, or fabulous clothes I have squirrelled away. But (and this is a big but) I am an expert 'stasher'. You should see me fill a suitcase. I learned this amazing skill from my father - making room where this is none. There is a science to it honestly. It's a bit like 3-D life size 'Jenga'.
So I've told him that either he gets more clever about stashing his stuff out of sight, or he better get used to living out of a box.
Either that or we have to buy a bigger place (with a cellar-like dungeon which he can use to house his many bicycles, computers, guitars and contents of his imaginary 'shed').
I reckon he'll get used to the box.