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Please tell me that I am not the only one out there who tilts their head and says “huh?” when their husband does something the “wrong” way.
I mean, okay, I will stipulate that I need to chill sometimes. Micromanagement is a genetic disorder in my family (yes, mom, you have it, too…).
But sometimes I am simply stunned into silence (well, not really…) at the things that Dave does.
While making lunch: ”You did NOT just put syrup on the kids’ peanut butter sandwiches?!”
While helping with the baby: “Are you actually going to change the baby’s poopie diaper while she is STANDING UP?”
While sorting laundry: “How did you confuse my t-shirt (or stranger still, my underwear…) with Jade’s?”
I am very lucky to have a husband who helps, but sometimes… no, no… most of the time, I just don’t get it.
Today is our 8th wedding anniversary. Here we are 8 years ago.
Our Wedding Day!
Here we are today!
June 2009
Let’s just say…. A lot has happened in 8 years! I love you, honey! Happy Anniversary!
Oh yes, I have heard of these… these… DATE NIGHTS? They are a rare and exotic creature in our house. The planets have to align just right, there must be a elder in town (aka Grandma Bloo) from the faraway regions (aka Yakima, WA), and there must be well, honestly, the date night participants cannot be in a knock-down-drag out fight….
Dave and I are simple folk. We’re not foodies or art-lovers. The perfect date night for us is a night at a pub (one of our favorites is THE ATTIC in Madison Park, Seattle) having pub food and a malt beverage. Even better if there is a Seahawk or Mariner game on while we dine. Follow that up with a walk somewhere interesting — along the water, on a trail, down a city-block — winding up in a bookstore to browse. We may throw in a movie if there is something we are dying to pay $75 (it seems) to see. Our only rule is we are only allowed to talk about the kids in the car… once out of the car, we must talk about something else. Oh, our other only rule is that no one is allowed to puke. We once went on a three-in-a-row date night stint where one of us ended up puking at the end of the night. No, we did not over-indulge… the flu, food poisoning, and vertigo were the culprits.
The Attic in Madison Park Seattle
What does YOUR perfect date night look like?
Those of us walking around calling ourselves mothers could easily be mistaken for lunatics. Seriously, the guilt alone from forgetting to drop Lily off at piano lessons or not nursing Ty until he could drive, is enough to weigh down a small burro. But then you start to add the real maniacal moments like when I first found my husband carrying my baby boy in a Baby Bjorn and doing the dishes at the same time. I mean, holy crap, that would send anyone over the edge, right? Isn’t it obvious that this multi-tasking in the male gender is to be treated with suspicion at least and horror at most – well, as a mother, I chose horror. What if my son fell out? What if he was emotional damaged from being reduced to assistant kitchen scullery maid? What if my husband got it in his mind that he could replace me and I was unneeded in the family (I mean, afterall, he was tending the child and doing the dishes) Like I said, lunatic.
As for Liar, that is a bit more complicated. I think we moms and wives actually lie a lot. And let’s face it, telling the truth can be really overrated. It did not work to my advantage when, after seeing the movie Troy, my husband asked me if he looked like Brad Pitt (I kid you not) and I, well, told the truth. “Not even close, honey… not even close.” The look of utter disbelief and betrayal on his face snapped me right our of my truth-telling high and I quickly countered with, “But I am sure by the time you are 40, you’ll be a spitting image of the god Achilles, uhem, I mean Brad Pitt.” Remarkably, this little gem seemed to work. I cannot remember the last time I told the truth about one of the worksheets containing triangles, squares, and circles with chicken-scratched pencil marks along the photocopied edges that my kids bring home from school to show me. I say, “Wow, good job, you are amazing!” And my kids do do a good job and they are amazing, but this is hardly represented by a worksheet. But, isn’t it my duty to pretend it is? I don’t think Lily would ever quite recover if she came home to show me her schoolwork and I said, “Explain to me the pedagogical objective that your teacher accomplished by giving you this work and which of the state’s learning requirements does this meet?” Or, even better yet, really get them thinking with, “What did you learn about yourself by doing this busy work?” I am guessing that going with the “WOW, Good Job” is better suited for the psyche of a 10 year old little girl.
The more powerful lies are the ones we moms tell ourselves. We tell ourselves that we can do it all, that we can do it alone, and that the endless hours of taking care of everyone else won’t really take its toll on us. We tell ourselves that the burnt toast tastes as good as the yummy golden brown one we just sacrificed for our first born. We claim that we don’t mind that we turned in our sporty red BMW for a mini-van and that our children don’t really define who we are. We lie about how much we need our husbands to understand us and our girlfriends to validate our choices. And we lie to ourselves that we will ever ever be able to have a flat stomach again — because the truth about that one is just too much to take.
But the truth is this. That when we become mothers we are transformed. The old passes away and we are a new creation. We understand viscerally the meaning of sacrificial and unconditional love. And in this state I think we would willingly forfeit our lives so that our children can live richer fuller ones than we ever had. A lunatic? A liar? Nah, just a good mom.
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