I never really thought that two common place objects, found in our bathroom, would come to define where The Coach and I stood within our marriage. For all I know, The Coach is blissfully unaware of this fact, but me, well I know that there are sneaky little mind games at play and by jove, let it never be said that The Waffler won't rise to the occasion to engage in a spot of friendly warfare.
It actually began some years back, when it came to my attention, that regardless of how many times I shared the secret location for my stash of excess toiletries, The Coach seemed incapable of restocking items that had run out.
As a dutiful and loving wife, I would sigh and and shake my head with a little tolerant smile, as I reached under the bathroom sink to hand The Coach another bar of soap or fresh tube of toothpaste (thankfully he has mastered the toilet paper location, because lets face it, we all have our limits).
I couldn't pin point the exact turning point in this behaviour, perhaps it was around the time I realised that both of my children were now capable of finding and replacing the soap or toothpaste, but one day, I thought, hang on just a minute, why can't he do it ?
And that's when the battles began. By battle standards they are fairly subtle and bloodless events (flossing doesn't count), but the steely resolve is there, mark my words. Just last week, as I spent five minutes trying to extract the very last grain of toothpaste, I thought perhaps I had gone too far. That if I didn't lay down my (imaginary) sword we would be facing a life of gingivitis and shag pile-like layers of plaque. I glanced at the five cent sized piece of soap and thought of the sudden inexplicable lack of invitations to all social events and pictured my children's sad little faces as I would have to explain to them that mummy and daddy weren't allowed to leave the house anymore because they were both stinky, battle weary warriors.
And so I caved, with the soap, and I walked out of the bathroom with my head hung sadly in defeat. But lo and behold, when I came back in the evening to brush my teeth, there sat a gleaming, fat, fresh tube of toothpaste. My friends, I believe this is what's known in battle terms as an impasse, or a double white flag, but either way, I think we have made progress, and that makes me a very happy and clean little Waffler indeed.