He is mega, mega tidy. This is a guy who has built an entire career and professional reputation on being super organised. Things like books and clothes are arranged not just by type, but by colour within that type. He practises a system called "5S" in the kitchen when it comes to the tupperware. The dishwasher has a special cutlery-loading system to keep the unloading and sorting job at peak efficiency. Between us we have six children, yet people who have been to our house comment that there is no evidence of any children here at all.
If he's stressed, unhappy or under pressure, he can't cope with disorderliness and bangs around the house trying to put it all right. I've had to grow a very thick skin as I'm more - shall we say - the "creative" type. I don't care if things are out of place as long as I know where they are (which nine times out of ten I do), and I prioritise most things ahead of housework - if the beds aren't made or the breakfast stuff isn't tidied away before we leave for school, I prioritise being at school on time above doing stuff in the 'right' order and being late. He wouldn't - he would get there late (and angry) but have ensured everything is correct at home.
It's hard not to walk on eggshells, but I've accepted now that he has unrealistic expectations and I could spend all day cleaning (NO) but he could still be grumpy and unsettled because, I dunno, the skirting board wasn't as polished enough as it could have been, or something.
So I just figure I'll do things to my standards (higher now since I've been with him as I do believe in meeting half way) and if he gets grumpy I ignore or go out and let him get on with it. But at times I feel myself getting angry because there seems to a special kind of arrogance that goes with his self-labelled perfectionism, and that assumption is this: tidiness equals perfection, and perfection is, by definition, the best thing to be. Therefore being anything less than ordered and tidy is a failure.
I ended up calling bullshit on that, because it's not how I define perfection and he doesn't get to pull rank on the definition. Things standing to attention make me uncomfortable. Having no sign of children around makes me sad and slightly creeped out. I like to come home and see the lego set my son has left on the table, or the drawings my daughter has been sorting out on the sitting room floor. I like the signs of their life and creativity around me, and I like settling down to study or talk to a client than I like polishing the windows every morning (as he has asked me to do).
Orderliness is only perfection in his world. In my world, perfection is clutter. So I've got less cluttery, and he's tried to chill out. One day, I hope to feel comfortable in my own home. I suspect he hopes for the same.