The other day he told me off.
He had annoyed me and I had helped out by telling him exactly what he had done wrong. I helped him several times.
He responded with The Look. Then he gave me the Telling Off. Then he sent me to bed.
It was not especially early t be sent to bed, he was just drawing a line under the situation. It was an ignoble experience nevertheless.
Off to bed I scuttled, under the covers I escaped with my book as a raft in my rage and I fumed. But I fumed a little, it was a fumette.
He came to bed and sat by my side. He asked me how I felt and I told him, “Still mad at you.” He coped with that pretty well and then he came to bed properly and coped very well with everything else that followed. 
But here is the thing.
I was annoyed with him. I did not like that he shut me down. I felt he would not let me express my feelings.
But, more than that, I was relieved.
I don’t have to like how he deals with a situation, I am just glad he deals with them.
I did not tell him, “Thank you.” I read sometimes that girls like me should say thank you for being managed. It is as though we should reward our men for doing this thing in the manner of which we approve, like giving a dog praise for peeing in the right bit of the garden.
I don’t think it is fair that he can make me quiet when he wants to end an argument. I don’t think it is fair that he can spank me when he decided to.
I don’t think it is fair on him that he always has to be the grown up. I don’t think it is fair on him that he has to keep his temper when I fling mine against the wall.
I am not sure it should be fair.
I don’t want to train him. I don’t want to hand out praise like doggie drops; leaving markers for him like bread crumbs in the forest to guide him.
I don’t want to guide him. I have no idea how to do this thing that we do.
I burned the map. It is all up to him now.
