Dynamics...

Didgeridoo Boy and I pretty much have each other figured out by now - we had known each other for a while before our sudden (and somewhat tumultuous) connection, and over time, we have learned that there are certain triggers towards positive and negative responses that are best held deep within our psyches. Every relationship has its own collection of laws and regulations that the participants learn to follow through unspoken agreement, testy exchange (what my mom refers to as a "lively discussion"), or full-on screeching tempest. And once clarified, these things are usually adhered to in the name of maintaining peace and order.

For instance, Didge understands that we do not stride through the house playing imaginary drums (or guitars) while holding a cigarette. Doing so results in flying embers that land on the carpet, sending me into hellkitten dervish mode. He knows that he is not to pretend any of my belongings are his tail (not giving details), as I will react the same way - especially if it has been done, and the evidence thereof has been placed three feet from my head, several times over the course of an afternoon. (That was a bad day, one that resulted in me smacking him with a bag of spinach that exploded all over our living room.) He knows that, should he ever do them again, there are certain things that I will broadcast through this blog or tell my parents.

In turn, there are things I know that it's best I not do. Didgeridoo Boy's jeans are not to be folded, they are to be on the floor where he can see them. That's just the rule. His belt, too, is best left on the floor (if it's not in the jeans) - and both of these things are to be in the place on the floor where he thinks they should be. I allow Didge's papasan to sit smack dab front and center of the sofa so he can be king of the television unless company is coming, because he grows incredibly frustrated if it is moved. If he puts the remote on the entertainment center, that's cool, but if I do things can become a little dramatic.

Of course, some things are never completely clear-cut. Didge's set presents much more confusion than mine. Do you see a pattern? Read through them again. (Waiting.) It's all about things being moved - or not. Much like the items being moved, or not, the parameters of this set of rules are prone to shift; some days, for instance, it is okay if I put his shoes in the closet. Other days, not so much. Some days, it's okay if I put his keys in the dish I gave him to put them in so he can find them and not blame me for moving them when he has evidently plopped them in the flipping ether, and on other days, this is not what needs to happen. The same rule applies (or not?) for his wallet, sunglasses, and hat. But sometimes Didge moves things on his own, losing them, and then I am blamed for not putting them in the exact place I have been trying to put them all along. And when it comes to all of these things, he and I have not-so-silently agreed to just have the damned grey areas already.

To simplify, my set revolves around not destroying the house or doing things that are downright nasty and potentially unsanitary. His set revolves around not moving things, or moving them, depending. Depending on what, I don't know, and the knowledge of not knowing is what it is. But in mulling this over while I've been sick, and through deciding to put myself through writing an explanation, something beautifully centripetal to our marriage has surfaced, and that is the irony in my thinking Didgeridoo Boy is a simple guy, while he considers me a thoroughly complicated little princess. Clarity is a beautiful thing, no?