Mismatched Sets

We have two sets of sheets for our bed, one robin's egg blue, one white. At some point in the distant past, whether due to a sick child or a particularly sweaty hot flash, the set became separated. A top sheet thrown in the wash, a mismatched sheet put on the bed. When I strip the bed, it's now blue and white, when I make the bed, the same.  

It's a small thing, really, and no one has noticed but me. Every once in a while I will think, "I'd like to get these sets straightened back out," but then I'll toss the mismatched ones in the wash together and put the other mismatched ones on the bed. I do this for the sake of expediency and to conserve energy, because everyone knows if you don't dress a bed right away, you're likely to find yourself at 10:30 pm looking at a bare mattress pad and choosing a fitful night's sleep over having to do ONE MORE THING. It never seems like the right time to deal with it.

I think my sheets are a bit like relationships. 

Something can be out of whack, and instead of addressing it, we keep doing the okay-but-not-quite-right-things again and again. Maybe straightening it out takes too much energy when we are already depleted. Maybe the mismatch has become comfortable or almost imperceptible. And in relationships, unlike with a bunch of balled up sheets, we run the risk of finding out that a simple fix might not be simple at all, and that's frightening.

In life we often take care of the day to day: getting to school and work on time, making sure most boxes are checked and the car registration is renewed. But there are the other things, both tangible and intangible, big and small, that pile up on sticky notes, or in sacred rooms of our brains and hearts, that we just can't seem to tackle. We put them off for another day, hoping for a burst of energy, motivation, or inspiration. We wish we could summon a laundry fairy, a relationship guru, or a virtual assistant to take care of them for us, and do what we can't seem to do for ourselves.

The Von Trapp Family Swimmers?

Menopause slapped me with a 20 lb weight gain, and I had to update my swimming wardrobe. So in April, before a trip to Tim's parents' house in Florida, I bought a Lands End tummy control swim dress. It covered everything I wanted to cover and squeezed in everything I wanted to be squeezed. Getting that thing on and off was like wrestling a walrus, and I had to resort to the pull-over method in order to pee in the pool bathroom, but I was pleased with my purchase.

With whatever breath I could manage to exhale while squeezed in my suit, I breathed a sigh of relief that Andrew is a boy and he likely won't give me as much of a hard time about my wardrobe choices as a little girl would. I've been down that road and it was brutal. So far, he hasn't seemed to notice that I'm older than his friends' parents, that I don't rock a bikini, or that I put my bathrobe on around 5 pm each day (ok, 4 in winter).

Tim, however, may have pushed things a little too far. After wearing thrifted brown and orange swim trunks for over 15 years, he decided this summer was the time to go wild with a new bathing suit before dry rot set in. I told him Lands End was having a sale, and he could likely find something for less than 20 bucks.

Imagine my surprise when, utterly clueless, he pulled out swim trunks that match the suit I've been wearing for 4 straight months. I've often said he would not notice my being injured if I weren't bleeding from the head, but now I wonder about even that. 

And poor Andrew. 

Do we wear these to the pool together? 

Do we see if they come in kids' sizes and just embrace the WEIRD? 

It's one thing when your mom listens to 80's music that makes your friends groan in the camp carpool. Or when she consistently has 2-3 inches of gray roots. But your mom and Dad wearing matching bathing suits? 

What do YOU think? 

(Photo credit to the 6 year old who could use his nails clipped)

P.S. do you think Tim will notice my new pajamas?

Anyone Want to Help Me Move a Couch?

 I’ve mentioned before that I have decided quit waiting for enthusiastic buy-in from my husband. 

 

It's frustrating to think it took me almost 30 years to figure this out. I had hints when it was time to get our first dog. The months dragged on as I waited for Tim to show a modicum of enthusiasm. Finally, a one year old chocolate lab fell in our laps, I arranged it, and Shadow joined the family. Guess who was Shadow's number one person? Tim. Years later, we went through the same thing with Charlie. What a love affair! If Tim talked to me and cuddled with me the way he does with Charlie, it would be Valentine's Day every day over here. I’m not saying I did these things behind Tim’s back. I got his less than enthusiastic, barely perceptible buy-in and then ran with it.

 

What made me think of this today? Well, despite my bad back, I swapped our kitchen and dining room tables by myself. It doesn't look great, and will probably only stay this way a week, but I don't care. I was feeling itchy in these four walls, and sometimes you just want to move shit around. When it comes to house stuff, if I didn’t get the ball rolling, we’d be in a state of stasis forever. Men, don't often wake up and say, "I wonder if that couch would look better by the window." My latest project is getting a tree cut down, and I've set a goal for myself to on figure that out this week. Tim will know, but I won’t wait for him to high-five me on it. Few things turn a man into an ardent conservationist or decorating purist than saying you want to cut down a tree, or, God forbid, paint wood paneling. 

 

I'm not saying men shouldn't have a say in anything. I'm just preaching to myself here, REMINDING MYSELF not to use Tim's general lack of enthusiasm as an excuse, when I really could pick up that paintbrush, move that table, plan that trip, or do that next thing. 

 

99.9% of the time, he likes what I've done. He becomes the dog's best friend. He appreciates having appliances that aren't broken. He thinks white paint really brightens the space. He’s glad we went on those trips. Now I know I’m probably mashing everything up because it’s Monday morning and I haven’t had my third cup of tea yet, but it kind of reminds me of fooling around. I may be less than thrilled about the prospect, but afterward I’m always glad to have participated. Sure, there’s buy-in from me, but sometimes the enthusiasm comes later. 

 

Let’s hope Tim feels the same way about the tree. 

Current State of Affairs

I'm not going to say this parenting a preschooler and a teenager thing is impossible, but I will say it isn't always super-fun. Check out these voice texts between Tim and me when I was out much longer on Saturday than I'd intended:

I'm glad a sense of humor helps.

We've Still Got It?

Tim and I just had 23 wonderful hours away for a belated anniversary celebration. When your anniversary is Christmas week, you need to spread things out a bit.

My sister took care of Andrew and Charlie, while Margaret had a jam-packed weekend in NYC with her art class. We stayed at the Blackburn Inn in Staunton, VA. We picked it because it was close to my sister's, and we feel like we found a hidden gem! It used to be a psychiatric hospital, and then a medium security prison before sitting abandoned for years. Maybe that doesn't sound like a big draw, but I love history and old buildings. I loved how the historic architecture and traditional grounds were coupled with cool, modern furnishings and any amenity you could think of.

My former student is the food/beverage director there, and it was super fun to reconnect with her. She gave us great suggestions for things to do around town, even though we told her we'd probably be lame and binge-watch The Sopranos in our room.

Did I tell you Tim and I are tired and strung-out?

He came home one day last week, looked at almost-three-year-old Andrew and said, "I really don't know how we are going to do this." I knew what he meant. The truth is, we are doing it. Haggard and tired? Yes. But we are doing it. But I'm not always "up" either. That same day I almost cried because I felt overwhelmed with doctors' appointments, scheduling, and all the moving parts of making a family work. I feel like I'm dropping balls everywhere, even though we are a FAR cry from what one would call busy. That scares me.

Our night away was relaxing, romantic, and fun, and we even got 2.5 episodes of The Sopranos in before Tim fell asleep!

The next morning was much less romantic.

Did I tell you I'm a difficult sleeper? At home I sleep under a weighted blanket, with the additional 24 lbs of a puppy on my legs. I take a melatonin gummy, wear eye shades, and ear plugs if necessary. Even a tiny blue light from a phone charger across the room can sabotage my tenuous sleep. My bladder conspires against me. A neighbor's porch light or a full moon can keep me up for days. Yes, even with the shades closed tightly.

At the inn I couldn't find my eye shades because I'd tucked them somewhere "special" in my bag. I also felt restless with no dog on my legs, even though the bed, bedding and pillows were luxurious and comfortable.

So when I couldn't sleep, I had to get creative. Imagine how romantic Tim felt when he woke up next to me.

a) Mouthguard for teeth grinding? Yep!
b) Retainer for lower teeth? Of course!
c) Bad breath? See a and b.

But even after more than 20 yrs of marriage, I don't think he was expecting to see his wife wearing a pair of underwear on her head to serve as a makeshift eye-shade.

Clearly, the romance is not dead.

Be Mine

I know you are used to my rants about Tim's ignoring the Big Day. Or, my propensity to buy myself a purse from Target to celebrate my ardent love for myself on February 14. Or, sweet blogs about family traditions, from WAY BACK in the days when, for privacy's sake, I called Jack "Jake" and Margaret "Molly" on this blog.

Today's a little different.

Tim got me salt and pepper shakers in our china pattern to replace ones that have been broken and mended, broken and mended, over the years. What an appropriate and thoughtful gift.

My first thought when looking at both the old and new shakers, however, was that each set looked a bit...anatomical in its own special way.

My second thought was that the old salt shaker is a really good illustration of 26 Valentine's Days and 21 years of marriage.

The cracks and mending represent some of the excruciatingly hard times we have endured. Times when we've been shattered on the ground. Times we've had to pick through shards and pieces to see if and how we'd fit together again, particularly after our son's death. We are changed by what we've been through, even as we still function. The sustained, everyday use, despite these scars, reminds me of how we have continued to show up, long past the heady early days of wedding registries and clueless optimism.

So maybe this isn't the most romantic Valentine's post you've ever read, but I think instead of throwing away that salt shaker, I may keep it around as a reminder of how far we've come.

LOVE to you today, as always.

Fried

Things feel tough right now. Not cosmic-level tough, just frazzle-making, quick-tempered, cranky tough. Tim is busy at work, Margaret is surviving the hell that is JUNIOR YEAR, and I'm deep into toddler-land with a sick and stuffed-up Andrew. My 12 hours a week of freedom while he's at Mother's Day Out have yet to exceed 8 and it's nearly November. Tim and I have done some really fun things lately, but not as a couple or as a family.

We are all tired.

Tim and Margaret work late into each night after putting in full days. I follow Andrew around, yet I'm not always fully engaged. We rely on our phones, computers, and tv too much, which cuts down on productivity and eliminates family time. "Communication" is by text, if at all. Because we are tired, we become less generous and grace-filled. In fact, we are grace-emptied. We start to think, "But what about MY NEEDS?" When we hit smallish bumps in the road, we catastrophize about the future, telling ourselves, "It will ALWAYS be this tough."

A few mornings ago, we were deep in the morning rush. It was clear Margaret would be late for school as she tried to finish up an assignment. Tim, her driver, felt angry and manipulated. I felt resentful of getting up before the sun with a toddler. In the midst of all of this, knocks started coming on the door.

Poor communication meant I had no idea Tim had hired landscapers to do some work for us that morning. The dogs barked, Andrew cried, Tim sighed, I groaned. More knocks came. Oh, yeah, our cleaning lady and her sister were here for our twice monthly cleaning.

Knock Knock.

Are those the garage door people? Darn. I'd assumed everyone would be out of the house before they got here. Even in the chaos of that moment, I realized how fortunate we are to have a house, and to be able to have help to keep it running smoothly.

But nothing felt smooth.

It's one thing to have a rough morning family-wise; it's another to do it with 7 extra people as witnesses to your disfunction. Tim and Margaret eventually huffed and puffed out of the house, I parked Andrew in front of Little Einsteins (again), and I got to discuss garage door motors in my pj's.

I know better days are ahead-- they always are-- but boy would it be nice to feel well-rested, more connected, and optimistic here at Team Donaldson. I've found what sometimes helps us is getting OUT of the house together for something low-key such as lunch at a Mexican restaurant or a mandatory walk on a local trail. If we can't get out, then eating a meal together or watching a show we all like helps.

What about you? How do you knit things together when it feels like you are unraveling?

Learning about Marriage from a 14 Month Old

Margaret will be away from Andrew for almost a week. "I'm going to miss him sooooo much!" she said as we hugged goodbye. At 2 days in, he's already wandering around the house looking for her.

I'm glad this day has come, because it took a while for them to connect.

First, he was just so fragile and scream-y. Then he got cuter, but she was busy with school and sports. Their interactions were limited and brief. As I like to say, she reminded me of a Downton Abbey parent, content to have the baby paraded in once a day for a quick pat on the head and that was it. If you are guessing that she's Lady Mary and I'm the hard-working nanny in this scenario, you are correct.

Once she decided to pay more attention to him, however, it didn't go so well. She would swoop in after a long day at school and go in for a hug, to which he would fuss and give a straight-armed push right back. That would frustrate her, make her think he didn't like her, and she'd keep her distance.

Tim and I were talking about it one day, and this is what he said:

"She needs to let him interact with her on his terms. She can't just come in out of nowhere and expect him to react the way she wants to with a hug. They need to spend time together first. She needs to figure out what he likes and what interests him. If she'd get down on the floor and play with him more, he'd want to spend time with her and accept her affection."

I raised an eyebrow and said, "Does that sound at all familiar?"

The angels sang, and it all clicked for Tim.

If Tim shows up out of nowhere wanting to get frisky, when days or possibly weeks have gone by with little interaction between us, he might be greeted with a straight-arm, too. If he has shown no interest in what's going on in my life, or forgotten little niceties such as "How was your day?", a hand brushing against mine on the couch, or saying good night, going for the gusto seems jarring and discordant.

Like Margaret did, he may see physical affection as a way to connect, which it is, but if it isn't backed up with a relationship, it feels wrong. Likewise, when Margaret (or Tim) feels rebuffed, it makes them want to withdraw, and the cycle continues.

 Life is so fun!

The good news is that Margaret "got it" and started doing things Andrew likes, such as playing outside, looking for butterflies, reading books, and chasing him around the kitchen. She started spending time one-on-one with him, so he wasn't always running to Mommy or Daddy, and their relationship grew. Now, he's her biggest fan and vice versa.

As for Tim and me, we are still learning. I mean, it has only been 25 years, so why rush things?

Ghosting in Babyland

Have you heard of ghosting?

It's a dating practice where one person just suddenly disappears with no explanation. It seems inconsiderate and more than a little shady.

ghost·ing

ˈɡōstiNG/

noun

1. 1. 

   the appearance of a ghost or secondary image on a television or other display screen.

     2. 

the practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.

I'm not sure if I've ever been ghosted. There was that time right before college when my boyfriend started avoiding my calls, but he eventually had the guts to show up on my front porch and break up with me, probably prodded by his mother into doing the right thing.

As parents of a newly minted toddler, Tim and I both feel the pull toward ghosting. No, we can't leave our home or relationship with no explanation, but we do disappear without a word sometimes.

A few weeks ago we were in the small living area of our house. Tim and Andrew were playing on the floor, with Tim clearly in charge of childcare. I had my back to them as I sat at the dining room table a few feet away.  At some point, I heard whiny cries from Andrew, turned around, and saw no one. Tim was gone. I soon found Andrew stuck under the couch.

Later, I was like, "Dude, what happened to you?" Tim said he had gotten really, really tired and withdrew to take a nap, saying nothing to me.

I'd been ghosted!

Now before we judge Tim too harshly, I'll admit that yesterday I said, "I need to run and go pee," before Tim drove Margaret to school. I deposited Andrew in Tim's arms and ran up the stairs. Once in the bathroom, I started thinking that a quick shower would hardly take any time at all. By the time Tim hunted me down to hand back the baby, I had peed, showered, and dressed.

One of the biggest challenges to having a baby at this stage in life is that we have experienced at least 10 years of some degree of personal freedom and now it's gone. I feel the pinch the most when it comes to my writing and personal hygiene. Tim feels it at work as he must rush to come home and relieve me, and he misses running and playing on a soccer team. Oh, and sleep. We both miss sleep.

I ghosted Tim recently when, after pulling into the garage after an errand, I just stayed in the car. And stayed. I may have dozed off a little. It's just so tempting to try to carve out a little more alone time when we can find it.

After almost 25 years together, our relationship has a lot of give and take. These days we just have to be able to find the other person in order to give back the baby and take a break.

Why Did We Have to Say, "This is the Easiest Christmas Tree Ever!"?

Tonight we will either be successful shoring up our Christmas tree, or we'll be taking it down 11 days before Christmas. I wouldn't say this year's tree experience has been as rough as the time three years ago that Tim chopped the lights with gardening shears AFTER the entire tree was decorated, but it HAS been a challenge. The kids' tree is still front and center when you walk in the house, in its easy-to-assemble and semi-stable artificial glory, but the real tree downstairs has been causing problems.

Because of the difficulty of taking Andrew anywhere in the evening, I quickly picked a tree out by myself one morning this week instead of waiting for us all to go after work. I didn't like going by myself. It reminded me of doing that after my mom died. Maybe the tree didn't like it much either.

Plopping it in the stand, Tim and I both remarked on how easy it was, since the tree was smaller and lighter than usual.

However, no matter how many times we twisted, the screws wouldn't anchor on anything. The trunk was a soggy, pulpy mess. After about 10 minutes, Tim said he was giving up. I suggested we toss it on the back deck and throw some white lights on it for an outdoor decoration. Margaret begged us to rally, from her comfortable perch on the couch, of course.

I suggested we could anchor it to the walls with twine, as my grandpa would have done, but Tim was having none of that, saying, "I've never heard of anyone doing that before!" So, I guess if he hasn't heard of it, it can't possibly be a thing.

Eventually, he made little shims out of wood so that the screws would have somewhere to go, AND we used fishing line to anchor it to a heavy table on one side and my favorite hulking "dumpster dive" on the other. All was well, and I decorated it until 12:30 am.

The next day it was leaning.

And leaning.

And leaning.

We tightened all the things.

Because we are going on a trip, we don't think it's fair that our house sitters and the dogs should have to deal with a downed tree and potentially hundreds of broken glass ornaments.

So after Tim puts Andrew to bed tonight (Yay, Tim! He does it every night), we will assess whether to up our fishing line game, or take down the tree. I always love how spacious the house feels after the trees are down, but it does seem a bit early in the season for that...

I'll keep you posted!

p.s. I ran across this old post from 2009 in which I call the family by pseudonyms, show how grumpy I am, and mention a surprise after-40 pregnancy. What?!? 

The Line of Stupidity: A Tale of Chores Yet Undone

I'd like to show you something that I haven't shown many people.

It's one of our dirty little secrets:

I know my photos are crappy, as usual, but I'm hoping you can see where the lovely, fresh gray paint on the left joins up with the yellow faux plasterwork paint on the right. Do you? Good.

That's the LINE OF STUPIDITY.

Perhaps you have something similar in your house.

You see, when we had our major kitchen renovation done in Jan/Feb, we had the main level, which isn't a very large space, painted a lovely shade of gray, Moonshine by Benjamin Moore. Our kitchen renovators were pros, and they did a wonderful job. When they were putting on the finishing touches, we told them to stop painting right there, at the LINE OF STUPIDITY, because we wanted to finish the job ourselves to save money.

Now if you have ever renovated a kitchen, you know that you are basically hemorrhaging the big bucks at that point in the game. Would a few hundred dollars more have made much of a difference? I don't know. We didn't even ASK what it would have cost for them to keep painting. But I do know they could have hammered it out in about an hour or two, if that.

In the time since the kitchen was completed, my pregnant belly yielded forth a precious baby, who is on the verge of crawling now, our daughter finished up 9th grade and is well into 10th, yet the yellow remains.

It's not even a lot of yellow. Our upstairs hall is tiny, and is 3/4 white molding and doorways which we do not intend to paint.

 Now before we blame this whole debacle on the the innocent baby in our house, and his never-ending needs, I must confess that it's not as if we could not have seen this coming. Remember when we had french doors installed at the old house, told the handyman we would paint them ourselves, only to call him back ONE YEAR LATER to do the job? Yeah. Me too.

So please, help a girl out. Or at least her husband out, and tell me of any unfinished projects you have staring you in the face.

The Balm

Despite the general sense of calm I've had about this late-in-life pregnancy, I do still wonder about my ability to do it all over again. Not the pregnancy itself, but the parenting and the sacrifice, and of course, 2nd grade math. I don't want to phone it in with this little one, even though after more than 10 years of having kids in school full-time and plenty of very quiet time by myself at work and at home, it will be an adjustment. Am I ready for Hot Wheels and Thomas the Train?

Will I be able to adapt to having a little sidekick again?

And it's such a weird time to be having a baby, when I FINALLY feel I have found my true calling through writing and speaking engagements. Sharing stories and life with others, examining the ideas of loss, resilience, and radical trust are a sweet spot for me, and I've been hoping to do much more of this as Margaret grows more independent. I love speaking to churches, universities, and at conferences.  I feel there may well be another book or two in me. So, after years of NOT knowing what I wanted to do when I grew up, I now KNOW, and it feels right, but I wonder how it will play out with a tiny person to care for.

I haven't mentioned this inner conflict to many people, because I don't want to seem to be taking our baby miracle for granted. But I'm human, and I wonder. It seemed like it was time for me to blossom beyond the four walls of our house by connecting with others and their stories, but being pregnant  seems to steer me right back toward the protective walls of home.

My husband Tim, who is a man of few words, said the kindest thing to me last week. I know I have used this space in the past to share some of his foibles with you-- not full-on husband bashing I
hope--but  anecdotes here and there to illustrate our different takes on...just about everything. And as I told him years and years ago, if he wants to write about me and my annoying habits, he should feel free to start his own darn blog.

Anyway, out of the blue in the kitchen last week he said, "I think what you do is more important than what I do, because you are helping people every day. I want to find a way to help you after the baby comes so that you don't have to quit doing it."

I don't know what he meant, specifically, but I tear up thinking about it.

His job is the one that brings in the vast majority of our income, and it is something that he does well. For him to notice, really notice, that what I do somehow makes a difference made me feel seen and acknowledged. We don't talk much, but in 20+ years he has witnessed that my default mode is to put my desires on the back burner for the family, to push up my sleeves and let the years roll by without considering if something else might also beckon. Now that I've heard such a beckoning louder and more clearly than ever before, I do not want to ignore it, and his words emboldened me to consider that following the call might still be possible, even if the idea overwhelms me. Truly, those words were a balm.

This post is not about making money, or staying home versus working outside of it. It feels different than that. Instead, I think it's about yesterday's patterns not having to dictate tomorrow's. It's about rethinking roles and the way things have always been. Jack's death has taught us that almost everything is subject to change, but even with that unsought-after knowledge, I am still sometimes reluctant to see beyond how I am living right here, right now, and be open-hearted to other possibilities.

In the Trenches in the Dog Days of Summer

When the kids were little, it seemed as if all hell would break lose when Tim would leave town, but when I was away, Tim would say things like, "We made a quick trip downtown so I could show the kids what a real Picasso looks like. There was a parking space right in front, and the stroller made everything so easy!" Then he would leave town again, and I'd be like, "Well, we all have diarrhea. And croup. Bright spot? We had a productive discussion as to whether diarrhea should be called #1 1/2 or #3."

The best/worst example of this phenomenon was when he got an extended assignment for his firm in Paris.  I was pregnant, with a sick toddler and a my own case of walking pneumonia. Oh, and my rib was cracked from coughing.

I'm sure Tim dreaded calling home.

But for some reason that didn't stop him from telling me about the great wine selection and how at one restaurant the staff rolled a cart to the table upon which sat, "The biggest cheese wheel I've ever seen!" I didn't even know what that meant, but in my diminished and desperate state, upon hearing that my husband was enjoying wine, freedom, the City of Light, and an enormous quantity of CHEESE, I was fraught with jealousy.

I share this because on Saturday, while I was away at a fantastic blog conference, almost 14 years after the cheese wheel incident, I think we are more than even.

I received this email from Tim while I was sitting in the warm sunshine, connecting with old friends and new:

BTW, I came home after dropping Margaret off and Shadow had got into
the trash and eaten several boxes of raisins.  I made her throw up with
hydrogen peroxide (there were raisins in the vomit).  But within seconds
Charlie was chowing down on the peroxide-laced vomit.  So I put him inside
while Shadow barfed outside, only to find when I returned to the kitchen
that Charlie had barfed and was promptly snacking on the twice recycled
vomit (is that like double baked potatoes?).  Definitely could have used an
extra set of hands!

Things have since calmed down.

Hope you're having fun.  Look forward to having you home tomorrow.

Of course my first concern was for the puppies, because raisins can be lethal for dogs. Little Charlie only weighs 7 lbs, so the prospect of his ingesting even a single raisin was terrifying. Fortunately they are both fine!

Once we were able to determine that they would be okay, I was able to laugh at Tim's email.

I mean, I think the phrase "peroxide-laced vomit" earns him his stripes when it comes to being in the trenches solo, for sure. His story has several moving parts including peril and bodily fluids, so let's just give him props right here.

I was glad he was on duty, that the situation turned out well, AND that I was over an hour away from home.

p.s. The two happy pups are cuddled at my feet right now.

p.p.s. What do you think about the diarrhea question?

I'll Have the Wedge Salad

Sometimes it seems like Tim and I have a bit of a Claire/Phil Dunphy Modern Family vibe going on. Of course I don't exercise as much or put away the quantity of wine that Claire does, and I am reasonably sure Tim was not on his college cheerleading squad, but when they start talking about Claire not knowing how to use the remote control/s, or Phil being, well, Phil, the similarities are eerie.

No episode has driven this home quite like the WEDGE SALAD one. Have you seen it? It aired in Feb 2011, and it was as if Phil and Claire had an inside peek into Tim's and my marriage. Claire was beyond pissed that Phil wanted to tell her about this super-duper new salad that an acquaintance had turned him on to-- when Claire herself had been singing the praises of the wedge salad for years! Phil tried desperately to figure out why Claire was so mad, but there were so many possibilities over the course of a given day, he couldn't pin it down.

Wow. You see, I've struggled mightily over the years with feeling like either Tim is not listening to me, or if he does listen, he discounts my opinion while enthusiastically supporting the same opinion if it comes from another source. Gah!

This became so standard early on in our marriage that my sis and I had a running joke about it. When Tim and I went searching for our first couch together, for instance, my sister said, "Pick the one you want and have Hal recommend it." Hal, one of our friends, somehow became the arbiter of all that was good and desirable to Tim, even if Hal I and said the same damn thing.

Whether it was a new restaurant, a Bible Study class, a TV show, or some home improvement idea, it never hurt for Tim to hear how much Hal liked it first.

I remember reading about a fun family activity called geocaching where you go on a hike and follow clues to find a small treasure in the woods. I mentioned it to Tim a few times with absolutely no reaction. Was I speaking out loud? In English? Then, I left a few Boy Scout Magazines with geocaching articles on his desk, with "Read Me!" written in Sharpie. Nothing.

One day, more than 6 months later, Tim was delighted to tell me about a new pastime he had heard about: Geocaching! And faster than you could say, "Wedge Salad!" he had gathered up a fanny pack, a portable GPS unit, the kids and the dog; "Team Shadow" was off in the woods! I am not sure what gave Tim the idea (Hal had moved away years earlier) but I know he likely doesn't think it was me. Tim took to geocaching enthusiastically and it became a wonderful way for him to connect with the kids on outdoor adventures-- just like Claire had I'd envisioned.

Now you may think that you would NOT put up with this sort of nonsense in your marriage. Shouldn't Tim listen the first (or fourth) time I suggest something, whether it's painting the fireplace white, or going on a trip?

I get it, I do.

But a lot of marriage is trying not to become so irritated with the other person that you want to do them bodily harm. It's a dance. A long, long, long dance with ample opportunities for compromise.

I have judged other people's marriages when they look different than mine, only to realize that their dance is just different than ours. For instance, I remember hearing of friends who would squirrel away new purchases from their husbands so they wouldn't have to admit they'd gone shopping. Or they kept a stash of fun money in their dresser so they wouldn't be held accountable for spending it. I told myself there was NO WAY I'd put up with a spouse who was all up in my grill about my spending habits, but I later realized, just because financial transparency wasn't a hot button issue in Tim's and my marriage we had plenty of our own.

We are similar in our spending and saving habits, raising children, and our focus on faith and integrity. But in other areas, we diverge a lot. He's active, while sleep is my favorite thing. He likes to do. I like to be. He processes things s-l-o-w-ly while I make decisions quickly. We vote on opposite sides of the aisle. And the list goes on.

I have learned that if I wait until I receive an enthusiastic response about painting walls, hanging pictures, getting pets, or going on a family trip, I'll be waiting a very long time. My old M.O. was to get annoyed and discouraged because we never seemed on the same page, and then give up on what I wanted amid a lot of huffing and puffing. Or I'd hope against hope that someone like Hal would show up and give me a ringing endorsement. I now know that Tim's agenda is going to be different than mine about 80% of the time. Even if we both want to trim the bushes, trust me, they will NOT be the same bushes.

Over time (and well over age 40!) I've learned to go ahead and set things in motion, then give Phil Tim a chance to warm up and catch up. I narrow down choices for him, so he has a say but doesn't have to sift through a ton of information. He does the same thing for me when it comes to investments and remote controls. I try to be extremely clear about what I want, whether it is stopping at a rest area ("I HAVE TO PEE RIGHT NOW. I DON'T CARE IF IT'S NOT LUNCHTIME YET") or about getting a puppy for Margaret ("IT'S TIME.") In the case of Shadow and Charlie, I located the dogs, then gave Tim's brain and heart a chance to catch up. It didn't take long.

It's a dance. And with all the smushed toes and missteps it really helps to remember that Phil has some awesome character traits AND Claire is not always a peach to live with either.

P.S. I think we'll have a wedge salad for dinner. Here's the recipe.

Keeping the Spark Alive

I managed to convince Tim to binge watch 4 episodes of Homeland with me over the course of Valentine's weekend, which was a win for sure. Not that there's anything romantic about Homeland, but I'm currently obsessed with and I want to get as far into it as possible before I leave for Armenia.

Another weekend treat was that Tim got an extra short haircut, which left him looking about 25 years old. I knew he was young looking when we met, but I never thought it would be much of a problem. Remember the time we were going to an R-rated movie (as married, pregnant, minivan driving homeowners) and he got carded? Sheesh. It's no secret that I've always looked a bit older than Tim, but I've held out hope that we would eventually fade at relatively the same pace.

Wrong.

With all of Tim's marathon running and juicing over the past several years, I've had a few alarming experiences where I've looked over at him and seen someone who looks a lot more like Adam Levine than the Danny DeVito-esque middle-aged husband I expected.

He just keeps getting hotter.

Not that most women would complain, it's just that I appear to be aging more like Bea Arthur than Cindy Crawford, and Tim's dashing looks and Benjamin Button-like aging process are making it hard for me to coast into my middle-aged glory days like I thought I would.

At least his lack of finesse in the romance department takes some of the pressure off. Last night we were watching something on TV with Margaret (not Homeland) when he slipped a little piece of paper into my hand with a smile. It was one of those little squares from our Valentine's Gratitude Box. I assumed it would be romantic and at least PG-13. I turned aside so Margaret wouldn't see what it said, but I could have saved myself the trouble. Instead of a love note, it was a folded up Chipotle receipt. I burst out laughing as Tim frantically patted down his pockets trying to locate the note he had intended to hand me.

I die. As my brother used to say to me when I did something especially goofy:

Smooth Move, Ex-Lax.

Mid-Life Marital Musings

Shortly after Tim and I started dating at Wake Forest, he had to get his wisdom teeth pulled. I set myself up as his nurse, making sure he took his medicine on time and had plenty of soft food to eat. It was my pleasure to help him in his doped-up state, and I even bought his favorite pudding flavor-- pistachio. The little pistachio bits were not safe for him to eat, so I sifted through the powdery mix, picking out each one before preparing it, chilling it in the fridge, then feeding it to his adorable, grateful self.

Twenty-three years later, I am guessing that I would not jump at the chance to spare his gaping bloody tooth sockets from wayward pistachio slivers as I once did.

Why is that?

I think years of busy-ness and scorekeeping and nurturing the heck out of small children somehow leave little room for thoughtfulness for each other. I think people are generally wired selfishly, and each day is a struggle against a me-first attitude. And our culture leaves us asking every day, "What's in this for ME?" rather than "What can I do for others?" So when we feel spent, as we often do, we don't go around looking for ways to serve our spouse.

And before I get mean comments about what a terrible, horrible, no-good wife I am, I'd also venture to guess that the same guy who used to show up at my apartment window, rapping on the glass with a box of my favorite Little Debbie Swiss Cake rolls, also left the building quite a few years back.

The truth is, it's easy to forget about the little things that make our partners happy, especially as the years pass. But life really is about the little things, rather than the grand gestures, not that grand gestures now and then hurt.

As parents, we quickly learn what it's like to put someone else's needs above ours, and we are glad to do it. It springs from our deep well of love for our children. And as we pour ourselves into them, we have no guarantee that our efforts and love will come back to us in any measureable way. But we do it anyway. We can't score-keep in parenthood, because the scales would never be balanced, and we don't expect them to be. I don't mean to imply that parents don't need to nourish and take care of themselves, but that giving of ourselves to our children, although challenging, feels good, and right, and holy.

In marriage, however, we wonder if giving to our partner first will in some way diminish us and our claim for fairness or personhood or...something.

In the clunky yet thought-provoking movie Fireproof a few years back, I saw how one spouse lavished love and thoughtfulness on another with humility and without agenda, and the relationship thawed and blessings followed. Problem was, I wanted to be the one being lavished upon, not doing the lavishing. And Tim had fallen asleep on the couch, so he missed that part.

I know I could do that more, not in my own strength, but with God's help.

But most days it seems so risky to put myself back in those early days and ask myself, WWTTYAD? (what would twenty-two year old Anna do?). Because, well, what if it requires more than I want to give?

One day our house will be empty except for the two of us. It will be even quieter than it is now, and believe me it's quiet now.

And as we age, and more things fall apart, sag, disappear-- and dignity and bravado give way to need and struggle and illness-- we will be presented with many more opportunities to show each other help and grace in the smallest ways, serving each other.

It reminds me of how my grandpa used to use a curling iron to curl the back of my wee grandma's hair. Not too far removed from how Tim already colors my roots for me, right?

I don't know where this post is going.

I just know that our hours on earth are numbered. And I'm thinking I'd like to be remembered as someone who loved-- someone who would pick out pistachio slivers for her partner-- rather than someone who is worried about what's in it for her.

I'm a Fixer, Just Like Olivia Pope

...for those of you who don't watch Scandal, see you on the next post!

Although I don't look as good as she does in white and off-white, and my mom really died when I was a teenager--  not fake-died, spent decades in prison and then came back to terrorize the world-- I still think I have a heck of a lot in common with Olivia Pope, the main character in Scandal.

Take the vintage oak table.

"Vintage oak table? That does not sound like Olivia Pope," you might be saying. Olivia is all modern and sleek, with walls an icy gray and wine glasses the size of gourds. Oak and Olivia don't mix! True, but here's the thing: there was a vintage oak table in my life, and it was a problem that needed fixing, Olivia Pope-style.

In attempt to earn some money in dribs and drabs to try to shore up our hemorrhaging bank account, I decided to start hitting the thrift store again. On one recent trip I found a beautiful vintage table in perfect condition. I wanted to take it home, paint it, and re-sell if for a handsome profit.

But when I got it into my garage, I felt my motivation ebb. There was no one there to look me in the eye and say, "Get out your paintbrushes, Anna. You are a gladiator! Do what you must to earn the $100 OBO that will surely save your family from ruin!"

So it sat. My husband was not thrilled to see a table occupying his parking spot in the garage. Day after day, when he came home from work he'd push the button on the garage opener, and as the door made its slow ascent, he'd look with fear and dread to see if there were four oak legs waiting for him, and there were.

I suggested that perhaps we could move it to the basement until my painting mojo returned. He said a dismissive yet definitive, "It won't fit down the stairs," and that was that.  Now, as a fixer, I probably would have said, "Let's just try it" especially based on the knowledge that this is the same man who told me this curbside sideboard/cabinet would never fit in my minivan. Amateur.



Eventually, I decided to sell the table on Craigslist As-Is, and let its new owner paint or not paint at his or her choosing. Tim suggested we move it into my office area until it sold, but I prefer to keep active Craigslist items a little farther outside the heart of the home so that my neighbors can hear me scream if something goes down. Good Olivia Pope-thinking, right?

This makes me wonder how no outsiders ever seem to notice the murder and mayhem in Olivia's sphere of influence. Hmmm.

I was actually grateful Tim was out of town last week so the table could stay put while his car was at the airport. That gave me time to deal with two Craiglist no-shows. And by deal with them, I mean write pleasant emails back and forth for several days about the joy of owning this table, truly bonding with my new Craigslist friends until pick-up time when...nothing. It made me think that when I die and someone sends out a mass email to report the fact, there will be a lot of Craiglisters in my contacts who will say, "Who the hell is this Anna person they're talking about, and should I be sad?"

Anyway, with the prospect of Tim's return looming, my inner Olivia Pope sprung into action. Using my already advanced powers of estimation (see: Sideboard, Minivan), I was able to deduce that a solution had been right under my nose the entire time and that Tim's angst over the table could be alleviated rather quickly.

I know this is almost as complicated as some of Huck's computer hacking codes, but stay with me here. If I rearranged some of the crap in the garage and turned the table SIDEWAYS, I would be able to gingerly wedge it against the wall and Tim would still be able to pull into his spot safely. Oh yes.

Tim hasn't mentioned the change yet, but I went ahead and rewarded myself with a glass of wine and a bowl of popcorn for dinner.

Gladiator, indeed.

Tree-dition Rocks

I'm about to start revisions for my book, so I may be scarce for the next few week. It's exciting to be entering the "home stretch." and I really appreciate your prayers and support!

Before I disappear, however, I have a few things to share with you.

First, Bear is dead. Margaret's sweet hamster that Auntie Liz bought her a few days after the accident has died. We had a quick burial in the back yard, and shed some serious tears. Bear was a very dear pet who let me carry him around, baby talk to him, and never once nipped at us.

Second, I need to tell you about our Christmas tree fun. So, you know how we've always had a Kids' Tree and a Grown-up Tree? I know Kristen Howerton got flack on Twitter last week for wanting to put up a separate Kids' Tree, because she didn't want to cover her main tree with all of the dough and paper plate ornaments from her four kids.  Well, I say "More power to you, Sister!" We've been doing that for years and the kids have always loved it! I'm pretty sure having two (or three or four!) trees does not mean you love your kids any less.

You see, our family attended an Advent craft workshop for 9 years straight. Each kid came home with 10-12 ornaments per year. That's a lot of glitter and macaroni, people. There was no way my mom's gold balls and silver bows were going to fit on one tree with all of that homemade goodness. Thus, the two trees.

The kids felt special, plus it helped me seem much more laid back than I was when Tim's mom sent us 2 identical Hallmark Mark McGuire baseball player ornaments one year. Instead of hiding them on the lower inner reaches of the regular tree, I got to exclaim, "Wouldn't these be so festive on the Kids' Tree!?" without looking like too much of a jerk. Over the years, the contents of the trees got more intermingled as we put more of the kids' projects on the main tree, such as the paper ornaments they made with the names of Jesus on them.

Anyway, in the old house, the Kids' Tree was a large artificial tree that stood in the upstairs stairwell right outside Jack and Margaret's rooms. I liked how its lights sparkled through the window as we pulled into the driveway. In the new house, there's no such spot, so the Kids' Tree is now front and center in the living room, and you see it right when you walk in the door.

But that still left the matter of the "real" tree. After a colossal Thanksgiving road trip, that started out with my feeling hopeful and positive and ended up screaming sadness and LACK into my heart, we made it home to a dead hamster and the task of purchasing and putting up the real tree. Tim got it in the stand for me. He debated cutting off a few lower branches to make a more solid fit, but then decided against it. I said nothing.

I waited for him to do the lights, which is his usual job. I prefer to be the one who says, "Dude, you need more lights in that bare spot" than the one actually doing it. Tim, however, wasn't feeling well, and decided to watch football instead. I was aggravated but decided to turn over a holiday new leaf.

Instead of reminding him that he had spent 3 hours working on his sister's tree on Saturday, and helping my brother with various home projects during the 6 days of male bonding time they had sans families before Thanksgiving, I kept my annoyed mouth shut. Killing him with kindness wasn't an option, so I just opted not to kill him.

I waited until the family went to bed and did all the lights myself. Then, I started to decorate. One thing led to another until the tree was almost finished after about 3 hours.

Except then it began to lean at an odd angle. It was not secure in the stand. I lovingly woke up Tim and inquired as to whether he might be willing to come downstairs and straighten the tree with me, lest it fall crashing down in the night. He demurred and resumed sleeping.

It didn't fall, yet I was forced to look at the Leaning Tower of Tree-sa all day yesterday.

Last night Tim was ready to deal with it. Which is good, because if I had to look it one more day, wondering when my heirloom ornaments were going to break, I think I'd have to turn my new leaf right back to the other side.

He lifted the fully decorated tree out of the stand, while I chopped off the offending branch. It was not an easy process. There were no I told you so's, no sounds at all really, just the tinkling of ornaments hitting the floor. After the tree was secure, I stood back and congratulated myself for not being a nag. All was well, even if the tree looked a little worse for the wear. The tree had survived, and so had our marriage.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied Tim crouching near the base of the fully decorated and lit tree with a long pair of hedge clippers. One of the branches did not look quite right to him.  It protruded farther than was acceptable to his newfound Christmas decorating sensibilities. So he opened those suckers up and chopped off the branch along with a strand of lights--  and the entire tree went dark.

I still did not say a word, but climbed into bed with the tv remote and a large bag of M&M's.

Today I took the lights off and hung new ones, which was of course super-easy to do on a fully decorated tree.

The tree now looks fine, thank goodness, and my tongue is sore from biting it for the past 3 days.

All is well.

But could someone kindly inform my husband that "trimming the tree" does not mean what he thinks it means?

Thank you.

Yummy!

So, turns out I broke Tim's car.

Remember when it conked out on me during my writer's retreat earlier this month and Mike and others came to my rescue? Well, turns out even good old Southern generosity cannot heal a cracked engine, so we now have the unanticipated expense of buying a new car. Yuck.

Most people who buy new cars are a bit sad to see the old ones go. So many memories. Mix tapes wedged in a broken cassette player remind us of our carefree college days. In the case of a family car, there are macaroni necklaces hanging from a rear view mirror-- missing sippy cups found in "the way back," and the way every stain tells a story. I can remember Margaret barfing up goldfish on an Amelia Bedelia book in this car. Shadow's muddy paws on the black upholstery after we went geocaching on a soggy day. Marks from Jack's baseball cleats. The crank windows that would confuse the heck out of neighbor kids when we gave them rides.

Since our family doesn't love change-- remember this picture of Jack and Margaret saying a tearful goodbye to our old green toilet?-- I know that getting rid of Tim's Jetta will be tough. New car = no Jack memories in it. No Margaret, Jack, and Shadow wedged together in the back seat. No Jack learning how to drive stickshift in 2 years.

Getting rid of the old car is sad, but it does give me the chance to poke fun at Tim a bit by telling you a little college story. You may have noticed that Tim is a fine looking man. And by fine, I mean f-i-i-i-i-n-e stretched out to 3 syllables the way Jimmy Walker would say "Dy-no-mite!" back in the day.

Well, when we were at Wake Forest, apparently Tim caught the eye of a few gay guys on campus. We didn't hear this first-hand, so I can't vouch for its accuracy, but because I have always greatly admired the opinions of gay men (Hello early 90's equivalent of Clinton Kelly and Nate Berkus!) this only raised Tim in my esteem. Good taste in accessories, good taste in men, they were playing my song.

We also heard that these guys had bestowed upon Tim a nickname, much in the same way my sorority sisters would say, under their breath, "There goes 'Wolf Man,' 'One Nut', or 'Sparky.'"

Tim's nickname? "Yumm Yumm."

Imagine my delight, years later, when Tim, Baby Jack and I received his randomly issued plates from the DMV reading "YMM-5555." Too funny. I've gotten a lot of mileage out of this one!

Tim may miss his old car, but I don't know whether he'll miss those plates.

The Buck Doesn't Stop Here

So I was kind of hoping a week in the woods would make Tim reconsider his yearly commitment to a guys' hunting trip with my brother. This would mean I would no longer have to drive on long, curving WV roads by myself until which time we could meet up for Thanksgiving dinner.

I had high hopes.

I mean this is the guy who is known to fall asleep in the woods, John Irving novel at his side. He's the one who got "scoped" by a rifle a few years back just in time for family Christmas photos.

He may even be known to lift a pinky finger while (whilst?) drinking tea. So I guess I'm saying, a wild mountain man Tim is not.

But darn if he didn't kill the biggest buck in hunting camp history.

I'm screwed.