Slamming our heads against the wall has different meaning in October

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.

I peek into the playroom. I can see Ittybit’s legs pressing down on the bed of the metal dump truck … and then lifting up as she absently watches her brother’s favorite show, Dinosaur Train.

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.

"That’s irritating. Please stop it."

"Ok, Mama."

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.

No, really. Stooooooooop."

Slam. Slam. Slam. …

I swoop into the room and snatch the offending toy.

I am not mad. I know there is a great big disconnect between her mouth and her brain as she tells me what I want to hear yet continues to stare at the television set.

It’s just a matter of rhythm and habit.

Habit is the same vice that force my husband to call my cell phone after he finds giant puddles of bodily fluid from one of the two pets we harbor, instead of just cleaning it up.

Habit is what makes him irritable after I question him further, seemingly disagreeing with his assumption that "nothing that big could come from a kitten."

"I TELL YOU THE THING IS HUGE!"

Is this going to be like the last time. … when you saved it for me to see (and clean up).

Another habit? Or just an unwarranted generalization that caused such wholly-imaginary organizations such as People for Less Unrest in Marriage (PLUM) to hire me, on occasion, to be its mouthpiece?

"I don’t do that," he protests.

"So your early morning discovery of a bunch of mutilated grapes with their sticky guts spread across a two-room expanse, which led to the late afternoon argument over why the mess was still there as you tried to elicit a conversation over which animal – dog or cat was the culprit … and the fact that I was the one who cleaned it up … was an isolated occurance.

"Yeah."

I stand there blinking.

He’s right. I’m guilty of those sweeping generalizations that peg all husbands as use-every-dish-in-the-house cooks not to mention, failures at dishwasher loading 101.

"Putting your dish on the counter above the dishwasher does NOT count as doing dishes."

"That’s not fair. I’ve done dishes."

"Once."

"And I’ve emptied the dishwasher."

"Once."

"Where’s the metal wall?" we agree in unison. "I want to slam my head so it makes that annoying sound."

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.

I’m not mad.

In the grand scheme of things, these picayune arguments don’t seem enough to warrant a special investigation by PLUM or any other imaginary-advocacy group.

Yet, some couples have serious problems that might start with a repetitive noise from a metal truck and escalate to blame and accusations. Other couples might not be beating their own heads against imaginary walls, but rather throwing each other into real ones.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness month. If you are being abused, know there are places you can go for help. Visit http://dvam.vawnet.org/ to find out more. No one should be slammed around.