Tag: Marriage

3Oct

Starry-Eyed

Sometimes,
I forget that marriage is my own real-life romance,
the same filigreed fabric woven with
our luminous first kiss,
vows handwritten as love letters,
anniversary trips to Venice, NYC, and Rome…

Sometimes,
among the bills and dirty diapers,
our orbits colliding within the same four walls,
marriage lowers its starry eyes
and takes on the antiseptic green of
an institution.

But sometimes,
when he’s away,
memories sift like sunlight through the holes:
glasses of wine in cobblestone cafés,
the living puzzle of our hands,
the core temperature of our last kiss melting memories of our first…

And sometimes,
I have to turn off the chick flicks halfway through
because glamorous actors
and heart-nudging storylines
are only a Netflix imitation of
this.

6Jul

Husbandversary

People always laugh when they hear my pet name for my husband, but come on— There is not enough R&B in our total combined bloodlines to call each other Baby without cracking up. Honey is what parents call each other, Sweetheart is claimed by our girls, and I’m not even going to get into the creep factor of calling one’s spouse Daddy. (It’s Ick x 1037,000,000, but you didn’t hear that from me.) Dan is both male and of sound mind, so Snoogly Oogums is out of the question, as are Punkin’ Doodle, Schmoopy Pie, and Peaches. Tragic, I know.

Fortunately for the dignity of all involved, something happened six years and one day ago which gave me unlimited license to the only pet name that ever stuck: Husband.

Which, if you ask me, is the most endearing term of all.


Photo credit: Dalton Photography

15Jan

Headless Is Hot Right Now

For the past week, I’ve been mulling over Rebecca Woolf’s post about whether marriage or motherhood is harder than the other. At first, it felt like a terrible question to consider at all… Is chocolate or raspberry gelato more likely to make me throw up? Do I hate the guts of fresh spring mornings or crisp fall evenings more? Would I take greater satisfaction from strangling my husband or strangling my babies? But perhaps it is a legitimate question after all. Relationships are not always easy, especially among people who live in the same house, and especially when life throws itself in the blender (as it is so wont to do around here).

The answer was simple at first, and I’ll give you a few hints:
1)      Surgical removal
2)      Breast pumps
3)      Explosive diapers
4)      Projectile vomiting
5)      Screaming fits
6)      Teething
7)      If it is liquid, it must be spilled
8)      Preferably on the rug
9)      Or even better, on the sofa
10) Did I mention the explosive diapers?
Motherhood is not easy by any stretch of the imagination. We parents sacrifice a lot of freedoms for our children, including going out at night and shutting the bathroom door. Little ones have too many emotional and physical needs to count, and my idea of an exhausting day is hanging out at home with my girls. My precious, beautiful girls who have oh so much in common with tornadoes.

But then I thought about conflict. Let’s say (hypothetically of course) that I yelled at my three-year-old for grabbing toys out of her little sister’s hand for the 7,415th time yesterday. One big hug and a “Mommy’s sorry,” and our relationship was back to its typical giggly state. However, let’s say (also hypothetically) that when Dan came home for lunch last week, I said “hi” and then snapped his head off and swallowed it whole. And while we may both know I was reacting to unrelated stresses, our relationship requires more than “sorry” to get back on track. We need shovels and flashlights and hardhats and paper for sketching a map as we dig. Then, once we finally unearth whatever tricky, deep-rooted problem that made me eat my husband’s head in the first place, we start the science experiments to find a solution. And then, once we’ve taken care of the problem, we still have a head to replace and a tunnel to crawl out of and some revisions to our daily routine to institute so that it doesn’t happen again… and I now need a nap.

The point is that both motherhood and spousehood are draining. Complicated. Scary. Hard. And far, far lovelier than I deserve. I feel wildly fortunate to live with three relational guinea pigs people who let me hang around despite my mistakes… and laugh at my jokes… and let me tickle them silly… and cuddle close… and say crazy things like they love me. As much work as these relationships can sometimes take to maintain, they are more precious to me than all the freedoms in the world. Yes, even more than shutting the bathroom door.

31Oct

And a Mushy Halloween To You

I love this girl,

Best hat ever

who turned one stupendous, sugar-coated year old today. Her favorite gifts were: 1) the Duplo elephant holding a yellow umbrella, and 2) the gift wrap, of course. This girl is caught in a time hiccup, running around the house in her black-and-purple Vans* as a big kid but still snuggling up for her morning bottle as a sweet-cheeked baby. She melts my heart, this one. As much as I wish I could stop her from growing a single second older, I can’t wait to see how many kinds of fantastic she develops over the next year. Happy birthday, Sophie Ruth!

* Because we are cool parents, but also because we want her to get mistaken for a boy ALL THE TIME. ::Sigh::

~~~
I love this girl,

Natalie skipping

who burst into our room this morning after discovering Sophie’s birthday balloons** and shrieked, “Look! This balloon has NIPPLES!” (It did.) Her favorite one of Sophie’s gifts was all of them, and when I complimented her on the little animals she had picked out for her sister, she rolled her eyes. “Mommy, I’m pretty sure they’re for me.” She too is straddling the line between big and little—using logic when it suits her, but still skipping the whole way home from school singing, “One, two, three, four, five, six, eleven, eight, nine! NINE, NINE, NINE, NINE, NINE, NINE, NINE!” Our lives are a thousand shades brighter for her smile.

** In our house, the birthday girl always wakes up to a bedroom filled with colorful balloons. Surprise!

~~~
I love this guy,

Quick Daddy hug

who stayed up far too late last night to help his pumpkin be-splattered wife finish making yummy things.*** I can’t say enough how much I appreciate this man. He loves his “girls” (all three of us included) deeply and shows it in little sacrifices all throughout the day… like putting on that annoying kids’ music so the girls can dance, or cooking supper on evenings when I look like Medusa’s tired twin. His heart is what holds our family—our lovely tangle of balloons and breakdowns and skipping and screaming—together the tightest. I think I’d like to keep him awhile.

*** Like these:

Balloon cake pops

(Strawberry balloon cake pops for the birthday girl!)

10Oct

Dear Crush

Dear crush,

Perhaps it’s because I never know what to expect when you invite me on a date. You’ve taken me to IMAX and waterfalls, Alligator Alley and concerts, ski slopes and dinner, and you never let on what we’re doing until the last possible moment. (I never catch on either, thanks to my gullibility trusting nature and disinclination toward geography.) Last Monday’s date night involved aperitivi in a little downtown bar and then the impossible—“The Dark Knight,” in English, in a large-screen theater. With box seats. You realize I can die a happy woman now, right?

Sake

Perhaps it’s because the next morning, while I was burrowed under the covers effectively not helping you get the girls dressed, you were making me a picture-perfect cappuccino… which you then brought to me in bed. I fully commend you for rising to the challenge and finding a way to wake me without incurring any wrath whatsoever. In fact, I can’t think of a lovelier start to a day than coffee with a heaping spoonful of lovin’.

St. Patty dates

Perhaps it’s because you suspected one day last week had been a little gloomy and brought me home a pot of cheery orange! flowers wrapped in a cheery orange! bow. Of all the people in the world, including myself, you know best how I tick. Perhaps it’s because, even though we’re leaning slightly in different directions about the presidential election, we can still die laughing together at SNL’s political sketches. I’m so glad to share my weird particular sense of humor with you. Perhaps it’s because you encourage me relentlessly until I go completely sane and have a fabulous day.

Roller coastering

Perhaps all of the above are why I find myself loving you a smidgen or two. You never know.

XOXO,

Your secret admirer

7Jul

Ain’t Nothin’ Better

In honor of our fifth wedding anniversary, which slipped away on a cloud of jet lag Saturday, here are five of my favorite things about being married:
– Never having to say goodnight
– Falling asleep locked together like puzzle pieces
– Hugging in the middle of an argument
– Cracking up over years of inside jokes
[Censored for your protection… hehe]

If jet lag weren’t STILL kicking my rear, I would write about how each year together is immeasurably better than the one before… how familiarity only breeds contempt if you forget to make out regularly… how I kind of hate Shania Twain, but I can’t help singing “Ain’t nothin’ better, we beat the odds together,” at least until Dan begs me on behalf of everything sacred in this world to stop… but I’m out of eloquence at the moment, so I’ll keep this simple: Here’s to the wild, wonderful adventure of spending life with the one you love best.

22May

Bibbidee-Bobbidee-Boo

On Tuesday night, Dan and I went on a double date with our friends Tom and Lindsey to a magical little agriturismo tucked away in the Umbrian hills. As with most meals here, the combination of gorgeous food and wine led to the kind of eager, overlapping conversation that Italians are famous for. And somewhere between the Sagrantino gnocchi and the profiterole, I found myself telling our love story—the well-worn details of meeting and connecting and promising.

It struck me later, as we walked through herb gardens back to the car, that this was the first time I had recounted our romantic history without feeling defensive. See, Dan and I got engaged only two months into dating, and I often felt like I had to justify our relationship to others, lay it out in neat mathematical terms so they would approve. It wasn’t easy. We went to a small Christian university where students were concerned with finding the Right Person to marry. Ironically, the divorce rate among our former classmates is higher than average, but I suppose it makes sense—a lot of Mr. and Mrs. Perfects showed themselves to be less-than-perfect after the wedding, and oops! Destiny must have loaded the wrong program. Ctrl + Alt + Delete, UndoMarriage, Restart.

I wish someone—maybe Dr. Phil?—would have sat the lot of us confused college students down and said, “Listen. Life is not a fairytale. There is not one custom-made person floating around somewhere in the world with your future happiness in his hands. Prince Charming? Is gay. So stop worrying about perfection and marry someone who helps you bloom into a better, brighter self. Choose someone you can laugh with and cry with and charge into the future with, and then be prepared to work hard for your relationship ‘til death do you part.”

I never knew what people meant when they told me, “You’ll know which one is The One.” No divine decree conked me on the head when I met Dan, and I often doubted our relationship simply because no fairy godmother was singing “bibbidee-bobbidee-boo” at us. However, I adored him. We could walk comfortably through each other’s minds, and our personalities clicked from the start. More than all, we wanted the same things in life, and our future together shone with delighted promise. I hated having to explain our relationship to cynical friends. They were looking for complicated magic—a mile-long wish list being checked off by one person—whereas what we had was simple: We loved each other, and we were willing to put our lives’ efforts into caring for that love.

I don’t often blog about marriage because I feel like there are fine lines between the honest and the pretentious (“We have it all figured out”), the sugar-coated (“Our marriage is a 24-7 makeoutfest!”), and the complaining (“My husband is a horrible person who would rather see me writhe in agony than put his dirty socks in the laundry basket”*). And while parenting is often a one-sided struggle, marriage is a very intimate haven requiring respect and discretion. Not open for public viewing

At the same time, I’m always encouraged to hear about other couples learning how to love each other through life’s inevitable storms and whirlpools and doldrums. Also, I can’t help wondering if there’s some other woman out there wondering if she’s chosen the right husband, terrified that any argument could lead to divorce. So this is what (nearly) five years of marriage have taught me:

Making time to talk about little things is hard.

Making time to talk about big things is harder.

Making time (and finding courage) to talk about the huge and ugly things, the ones you really don’t want to bring up, the ones that make you scared or weepy or furious, is incredibly hard,

BUT

Those conversations are the ones that propel a relationship forward, and if you can get yourself to say the unsayable, to work slowly and painfully through problems together, and maybe even to hug in the middle of a fight, you’ll delve deeper into the kind of love that far transcends checklists and fairy godmothers.

* For the record, my husband always puts his socks in the laundry, no writhing required. I like him, yes I do.

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