Nearly ten years ago, I had a conversation with coworkers about what it means to be laid-back. I listened for a while and then inserted myself into the conversation, commenting that I, too, am laid-back.
“Oh, really,” someone commented. “So if you were on a road trip and had to stop for the night, you would just stop when you got tired and take your chances that a hotel room would be available?”
I scoffed. “Well, that’s just stupid. Why wouldn’t you book a room in advance?!”
Realization suddenly dawned. Ohhhh. Got it. Lesson learned.
So I may not be laid-back. But I can be flexible. As long as you define flexible like this.
Totally. Totally flexible.
Maybe all children crave order, or maybe ours are just special, but these kids have responded unbelievably well to my need for order and systems in our house.
But the person who doesn’t get enough credit, or have any cute anecdotes shared, is Tim.
You guys, this man deserves a medal.
I am difficult to live with. No, no, no, I don’t mean I’m difficult to live with. I mean I’m IMPOSSIBLE to live with. So much so that I lived alone my senior year of college because basically no one wanted to live with me. (I’m not entirely sorry about how that turned out, by the way.)
As the fabulous someecard notes above, as long as it’s exactly the way I want it, I’m totally flexible.
Sometimes I wonder why he hasn’t totally flipped out on me. It helps that he appreciates organization and systems for things. It helps that we have two bathrooms. And it helps that he is the definition of laid-back. But most of all? It helps that I married a man who BENDS OVER BACKWARDS to accommodate me. Seriously.
I have changed locations of the garbage cans three times in the kitchen. He just rolls with it. I freak out about clods of dirt on the wood floors. He doesn’t comment and just grabs a broom and sweeps them up. I want the laundry done a certain way so I overreact when he TRIES TO HELP AND PUTS CLOTHES IN THE DRYER. He just explains that he was trying to help. (I’m shaking my head at myself as I type this). I want beds made every day. So he does it if I don’t–and he reminds the kids to do it (on the off chance they need reminded–they’re so good).
Sainthood. He deserves sainthood.
Even as I type this, I’m incredibly embarrassed that I should be so unbelievably blessed especially when I can be so unbelievably unreasonable sometimes.
So my heartfelt thank you to you, Tim, for never reprimanding me for going to Target, for understanding why I only want to buy organic meat, and for continuing to love me even after I turned all of your hangers backwards so you would consider if each item gives you joy (from The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up). And most of all, thank you for trusting me enough to be StepMolly to the two cutest children ever.