I have an announcement. As of yesterday, I joined the ranks of Realistic Wives. This means precisely what the name of the organization implies - - I know what my husband is capable of, what he might do, and what he will do. I accept crumbs, spills, mystery blots on the clean carpet, the ever-present potential for flatulence, and that he has a desire to do that thing he does out the back damned door and onto the deck. I know these things will be with us, along with snack wrappers on mantles, the strong need to not use a coaster, and his clothes in a heap by his two favorite chairs. (Yes, both. Don't ask me, I do NOT know and I am entering a place of acceptance. I will, by damn, find peace here.)
Didge can't help it. He's not neat by nature. Admittedly, I don't score high in neatness levels, either, but I do clean up after myself on a daily basis. Didgeridoo Boy is not wired to do so, and that's okay. Really. I mean it. I have a high-powered vacuum and an armory of cleaning supplies, as well as a recently refreshed catalog of handy tips that include emergencies. There is not one itty bitty point in fighting his basic composition - it can't be changed. Didgeridoo Boy is made of Didgeridoo Boy, therefore, he cannot be anything but Didgeridoo Boy. And that means shit is going to get all over the place, even into places that I thought it couldn't get into before Didge joined the party.
So, having said that, I also need to announce that I have taken what is, for me, the ultimate step towards fully walking this new path. It's not a man cave. I don't think hiding him is right - why lock the man in a room? Oh, no. I've brought him right out into the real world of the living room. He is grown folk, technically, so he has a space in the grown folk room.
And it now comes complete with a drop cloth. I have given up and given my husband a drop cloth.
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