“I know what we can do this afternoon, organize our apartment and get rid of some clutter,” I looked up from the computer. Having finally sat down to complete a blog I’d been narrating in my head for three days I didn’t really think I needed direction for my time this afternoon.
He was right, though. Upon returning from vacation I remembered how crowded I felt our apartment was, how our stuff seemed to be climbing out from closets and taking over the floor. It doesn’t help that our daughter pulls apart the tiny bit of organization that I have done and scatters it about the apartment.
“I want to get that box out of our room,” I felt a twinge of guilt. ‘That box’ was my mess. A box of collage supplies that sat at the end of our bed. The contents would regularly explode and throw themselves about the carpet surrounding the box. It was ugly. And it was my fault.
“Okay, well I want to put it in those plastic drawers. Can I fill the desk with art supplies?” I ask.
“I don’t really care where stuff goes, as long as it goes away,” he responds. Done.
So I take another break from my blog and take the plastic drawers that have been following me each move since college, empty the art supplies in them into the desk and then fill them with paper, fabric, and ribbon. I triumphantly walk into the hall and drop the empty box in front of the stairs.
“Done and done.” I announce. He looks up from playing with my daughter on the bed,
“So that’s my organizational task done for the afternoon,” I say, hands on hips in satisfaction. Scott grins and asks,
“Okay, what’s mine?” What? We are giving each other tasks? I couldn’t really think of anything that was ‘his fault’ that needed to go away.
“I don’t know, pick a mess and make it go away,” I shrugged. A few minutes later,
“Could we get the mountain bike out of the living room?” I ask.
“It’s only there because we were out of town,” I know this, but we’re back in town.
“Hey, you know your basket of sweaters in the corner of the room, can you make that go away?” I ask after the bike is outside.
“How?” he asks.
“I have those organizer things from Ikea, put them in there. Then we can flip the basket over and put the printer on top of it. Then we would have a clean desk.” Okay, I would have a clean desk. After much shuffling heard from the bedroom he appeared,
“Where are those organizer things?”
“Ohh, in a box. I think in one of those Rubbermaid boxes with fabrics in them.” He gestured to one storage area and then to another,
“I don’t know,” it appears we’re at a standstill. Digging in the storage units is too big a task for this weekend afternoon.
He did get the top of his dresser cleared off. The basket remains an eyesore.
I guess what I am saying is that Scott and I have learned how to get the other person to do what we want without nagging or making them feel bad about themselves. I am not sure how that happened. Maybe it’s not caring as much when it gets done. Maybe it’s knowing that if I pitched a fit about every mess he made he could pitch one about mine. Maybe it’s worrying that I have more messes than he does…