Dealing With Your Husband's Clutter

Anyone who really knows me knows I am a little OCD.

I was never clinically diagnosed, but I have the symptoms

of mild to moderate obsessive-compulsive disorder.

I can’t relax if my home and personal space is messy.

Chores need to be done before I try to have leisure time.

Dirty things must be washed as soon as possible.

Random objects on my surface space must be organized

in groups of alike items.

Don’t even get me started on rounding out bank account balances

And trying to prioritize holidays.

My husband on the other hand is NOT OCD.

He can be from time-to-time, on a case-by-case basis,

But generally he is not.

I come home from my job, and he has already been home all day

Watching the baby.

The baby’s toys will be strewn about the dining and living area.

Dirty dishes are still sitting on the coffee table or the counter

Because he didn’t make (or probably have) the time to put them

In the dishwasher.

His clothes that he took off after being hot outside

Are left in the middle of wherever he dropped them.

Oh and I forgot to mention...we live in a postage stamp.

Two bedrooms, one bathroom.

950 square feet to house two adults, one baby,

and probably about a four-bedroom house’s worth of belongings.

My husband likes to collect things.

He believes in the “we might need it for later” backup items,

The “I want to study this someday” books

The “It reminds me of my childhood” figurines of anime characters

From his beloved cartoons of his teenage years,

And he believes in keeping them out on display too.

He has his “I built this myself” giant computer tower,

But also his “I need it for school” regular ones,

And the “it makes working easier” multiple monitor screens.

Since we have a baby, the second room is dedicated to his needs.

So all of these computers and books are out.

In my living room. In my dining room.

We might have figured out how to conquer most of the challenges

That come with the first decade or so of adulting...

Except for one: home ownership.

We still live in the condo I moved into after losing a larger rental house

To bank ownership in 2011.

That condo was only supposed to be “home” for a year.

The rental market grew strained after I moved there.

It was my best option ever since.

When I married, we determined it was better he join me on my lease

Than I live in his temporary situation with him,

And we couldn’t afford a larger house yet.

We went through some massive financial “storms”

In the past few years, so buying a house is still

“In the future” for us. Not the distant future,

but not this year either.

So here I am. In a small space.

With a person who likes to collect things

But hasn’t his own office room (yet).

I’ve been dreaming beautiful daydreams of becoming a minimalist.

My heart can be romanced by images of apartments that,

unlike ours, sport only some modern monochromatic furniture,

a flat screen TV, a potted plant, and a few colorful throw pillows.

A girl can dream, I guess.

My husband would rather stick to what he knows.

He wants to save money by purchasing things in bulk,

even if there’s not much storage space for them.

He wants to keep things out in the open to remind him

To study that subject

Start working on that hobby

Oh and don’t forget the warm fuzzies of being reminded of

Dragon-Ball-Z every time he looks at that one shelf.

In this instance, we are opposites.

And we have had many an argument about his belongings,

Where they are located, and how they clash with mine.

To him it is something,

To me it is clutter.

It is covering table and counter space

That could be open to make the room feel cleaner

It is stacking up in corners and closing me in

It is not matching with my couch. He is steadfast.

A few things have been migrated down to our rented garage space.

Even fewer have been thrown away.

The rest remain, he will not budge.

So how will I deal with his clutter?

I will do .....

....nothing. I will do nothing about his clutter.

There is nothing I CAN do that won’t upset him

Make him feel disrespected and not valued-

Possibly unloved, in his own home.

If I throw away what I don’t enjoy,

I am throwing away when he DOES enjoy.

If I make him pack it away into the garage in boxes

(or I do it myself even), I risk causing his things damage.

Especially the electronic ones.

The garage is un-air-conditioned and not sealed off from

bugs and mold getting into boxes.

If I sell his collections, he gets money... but not all that he spent.

And I’m still crossing a boundary with him, because they aren’t mine to sell.

I can “make” him sell his things. Give him an ultimatum.

Make him feel pressured and slighted, while I keep my shoes and purses.

How is THAT fair?

There is only one thing I can do that will benefit BOTH of us:

De-clutter my own heart.

Cleanse my agendas and re-arrange my thinking.

I guess my baby son is not the only one trying to teach me a lesson in patience.

Someday we will have a bigger home and all of those collectible items

That clash with my décor themes will be in a room of their own.

In the mean time, I have to remind myself

It’s his home too.

We are equals. I’m impeding his space just as much as he impedes mine.

Technically I invited him here by putting him on my lease when we married.

That means he’s part home “owner” and part guest.

Guests are supposed to be made to feel welcome,

not like they are a bother.

It doesn’t spark joy in me, but it sparks joy in him.

The other day I told him that I read on a few blogs a concept

in Spring-cleaning that says “if it doesn’t spark joy, throw it away.”

Then I asked him to look around the living room/dining room area

at all the shelves and the computer desk and name one item there

that didn’t spark joy.

All he could name was a video-cassette collection of Indiana Jones movies

that he had found. We don’t have a VCR.

He sent it back to the dump.

It was the ONLY item out of hundreds in the room.

The limited edition video games and figurines remind him of better days-

those times in his youth before the military and the PTSD.

The thick, dull looking grey text book that says “CODE” on the spine

is there for when he has a chance to study code...again.

He enjoys it.

My things are there too- photo albums, journals

a coin bank for the baby to learn to save pennies in someday,

and a gravy boat.

He values my things because he values our son,

Getting to cook at home for the holidays,

And he knows my writing things down matters to me.

All of these things spark joy in him?

Maybe I should find a way for even the clunky video gaming paraphernalia

To spark joy in me. I don’t play those games.

But they make him happy.

And I need him to be happy.

This is all just a season.

Just like our credit problems were a (tough) season.

Being pregnant was a season. (It might repeat itself)

Wondering if my husband, then just a boyfriend, would work through some demons and I would get to marry him was a season.

Someday I’ll be standing in my living room in a much larger household

And I will be surrounded only by what I want to be surrounded by-

Blue and white pillows on a light couch, artwork, a simple TV stand-

And all of these “clutter” items will be in the fourth bedroom

Of this house: the office room. The gaming room.

Our son and his siblings will be in the other two.

Maybe I should cherish it more because life is short.

I know it sounds morbid, but in the wake of our community celebrating

but also grieving the unexpected loss of a well-loved woman and her baby recently,

I have to ponder for a moment 

“What if he was just .... gone?”

Not like my husband moved out, left me divorced and bitter...

But GONE. A sudden accident takes him away forever.

I’ve never truly experienced that first-hand,

But I’d imagine I’d sit down in the living room now devoid

Of his warm body

And look around at the items he cherished, treasured,

And they would suddenly become little memorials.

I would want to save them. Eventually, I’d pack them away

In a box, move somewhere far away to start over anew with our son,

The box gently placed up in the attic. But I wouldn’t trash them.

Until I had the time to put them in storage,

I would probably want to leave them up to make it feel like he was still there.

If I put it into that perspective,

They now become tangible reminders that I HAVE a husband.

He’s here living, breathing, sharing my home.

Suddenly, I can ignore the clutter.

(Sort of. )