Kryptonite

Today is my 14th white wedding anniversary, and for some godforsaken reason my husband saw fit to infuriate me over the weekend thus putting a damper on our festivities.

Disclaimer: my husband rarely makes me angry. Oh I get annoyed and all that, but totally “WTF?” mad... hardly ever.

When he does make me really, really angry, I hate it because there is not a thing I can do about it. Ok, well yeah, I can give him the cold shoulder for a while... but that only lasts a day or so. I just cannot live without talking to him, and when I talk to him, I like him again.

Yesterday I spent some time thinking about how we fight. It is hard to have good battles with kids around, and since he came with one as a package deal, we have always fought incognito. A fight will brew under the radar for a while, and then bang a few minutes of yelling, and then ice for a day or so. As we get older, our fights are even less dramatic... Hell, I can’t even pretend to kick him out or threaten him with a break up. Me alone with five kids while he is out nursing his pain in a bar full of snacks and football? Um, no.

But because of that, nothing ever really gets resolved. When we fight, the underlying cause is never anything new. In fact, you can probably trace it back all of our nearly 17 years together. While on one hand I think that sucks, on the other it is clear we really have nothing major to fight about. Just the usual he is him and I am me and we-don’t-do-things-the-same-way kind of piddly stuff. Or maybe we are simply super tolerant people.

Either way, I can never stay mad at him for long. When I do get angry, I have all sorts of visions of this being THE time I ice him for weeks and he suffers terribly and grovels at my feet, and never ever makes me mad again. 24 hours later I am dying to tell him about something that happened, or I am desperately needing to talk something over with him. I want to keep up the madness but when it comes down to it, I have no staying power for anger. And truly, if he starts to grovel I have to stop him because it just isn’t sexy. A simple “I am sorry for being an (insert colorful expletive here)” accompanied by my favorite latte from that little coffee shop downtown is good enough for me.

Because I have come to realize that he is my kryptonite, and that’s why I married him.


(January 10, 1999, taken a couple minutes after we each said, “I do” for the first time.)

Hooray! It’s Juicy Juicy Day.

Forget celebrating math because it's Pi day, today is also Juicy Juicy Day. If you are not up on your holidays, and you want to see what every guy would like to get on JJ Day, check this out.

Sadly, my husband will not be getting that. It is just too dang cold to be outside grilling steak, and I have been having a not-so-secret affair with the dentist (three visits in two weeks) so he will be getting buffalo blue chicken dip with Tostito Scoops and the hand for dessert.

Since I am already on the subject of sex, let me ask you... is anybody who is married with kids getting enough?

I know we aren’t. I try really hard to remember when we were and sure enough there are no kids anywhere around those memories. Ever since the oldest grew up enough to notice, um, stuff, we had to start being careful. No more craziness on the couch, the kitchen table, the lawn...

And then one day I realized that we are never alone. And somehow our kids just know when something might be up. Doesn’t matter if we try to hide in our room and lock the door... they will bang on it. They know. It must be some strange survival instinct that protects them from acquiring more siblings... I swear it even wakes them up at night.

In the old days, a moment of flirtation might lead to having to pull off on a side road, but now the only reasons we stop are to let someone out to pee, or to change a diaper. There is just no spontaneity anymore. Not even late at night when I am sure, really sure they are all asleep because by then, I am too.

Recently I went to visit my gyno who I have not bothered with since Kimani was born, and I whined to her that I need something, a magic pill, to fix this. Blah, blah blah... no fix, totally normal... WHAT?! Not what I (and surely not what my husband) wanted to hear. She suggested that maybe I should set the alarm for 5 a.m. and slip in some early action. I can barely drag my butt out of bed at 6:30 a.m. to get five kids ready for school... You think I am getting up at 5 for sex?

If not for the seven (mostly) childless weeks we spent in Ukraine two years ago, I would think maybe that wild girl I used to know (who once did it on a barstool in a packed club, remember that one, honey?) was dead. But, there in Ukraine I learned there is hope. It would seem that when there are no children around, and endless hours of alone time... we are still us, and still hot, and still up for it. (And see, my kids were right... when mommy and daddy were left alone for too long, two more siblings arrived.)



Ok, so that said, tell me... how are you going to hide from your kids today in order to celebrate Juicy Juicy Day?

Through the Window

As I stand at my dresser rummaging through the top drawer for a pair of socks, I see you walking up our long driveway, unaware of me. You have on jeans, a black tee-shirt, and a cap facing backward. Well beyond a 5 o’clock shadow is creeping toward your goatee, and your long hair is tied back in a waving ponytail.

In this moment I see you the way some stranger, some other woman might see you... strong and sexy, competent and wild. The fifty yards and window panes that separate us have the power to suspend fifteen years of my life, and I begin to ache for you... a you I barely remember.

Without thinking, I put my hand up flat against the window as if it were possible to reach through it and touch the past. I am surprised at how cool the glass feels against my palm, cold like my heart.

If I left you now, I do believe I would spend the rest of my life searching for that man in the driveway.

Pre-Wedding Jitters

Adopting a baby is very much like having a baby and now I think I know what guys feel like. Your body doesn’t change... you don’t feel the baby growing inside of you. You spend your days preparing for the arrival of a new little someone to love and then one day they place a bundle in your arms. Congratulations, it’s a girl.

It is a baby that knows nothing of the world, who has no loves before you, no life beyond you. A baby that can’t jump up and run off, a baby who speaks no language but that of affection and nurturing.

Adopting a child is like getting married. I remember diving in, terrified, saying I do when I wasn’t sure I could. I had never experienced a successful marriage and wasn’t sure the concept was really doable in real life.

Masha is not an infant. She has a life. She sings in Russian or maybe its Ukrainian... I don’t even know the difference. She runs away. She has a personality. She loves people I have never met. She doesn’t know me nor does she know what a mother is.

In a week or so I will “marry” her. I don’t know that she even wants to be married. It is best for her... it will change her life, but what does a three year old care about the future?

I have my dress, the invitations have been sent, the church has been rented. I am going to walk down the aisle, I am going to cry when I say I do. I know this story, I have been the bride before.

And just like the first time, I am scared.

100 Reasons Why

When you first fall in love, it seems so easy to list the reasons why. It took me maybe a half hour to come up with a hundred of them, printed out on textured grey paper, rolled into a scroll, tied off with red ribbon.

A decade, four kids, and many trials later, it gets a little tougher.

Oh, I know I love him... I just can’t always remember why as I move through this endless pile of laundry and glance at that sink full of dishes. And I am vaguely distracted by a distant memory of life before him, when freedom meant being able to wake up a world away with no return ticket.

So I sat there staring at a blank screen wondering if it was at all possible to conjure up a new list without peeking at the old list.

I love you because...
Panic sets in. Do I even really love you still?

My fingers type... 1. Those beautiful blue eyes. 2. You never complain. 3. You root for my Giants. ♥

Before I know it, I am on number 15. You can find anything I lost. Then zing... 23. You let me sleep late... often. 39. You make a lot of sacrifices to get things for me. And 48. Any roller coaster, anywhere.

63. You’ll eat almost anything.
64. You take the dirty jobs.
66. “Honey can you get me a...” Always a yes.
67. That little dance you do.
70. You are kind to living things.

Oh, I am on a roll now. Elizabeth Barrett Browning ain’t got nothing on me.

74. You are generous.
75. You drove through the heart of Chicago during rush hour without getting us killed.
79. You like to make up and don’t stay mad for long.
88. You always remember my birthday and our anniversaries and every other special day. ♥

Huh, this isn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. Did I really think I hated you just yesterday?

93. You agreed to more children.
95. You let me warm up my cold parts on you.
96. You forgive my imperfections.

And finally, 100. For thirteen years you have loved me completely and unconditionally and I hope you will continue to do so forever more. ♥

Done. Another list tied with another red ribbon. Happy Valentine’s Day love.


(Oh, my dear blog reader, you want the unabridged version? Look me up on EBay... I’ll sell you a copy, cheap ;-)

My Three Little Words

Back in my Triassic period, one of the fastest ways to get a pink slip from me was to pop out with three little words... “I love you.” Yup, premature enunciations of love would get a guy’s boyfriend status revoked. I had two golden rules... don’t tell me you love me and don’t ask me to marry you.

I love you, I love you, I love you... I’d heard it uttered in the dark by a frightened mother. I’d read it in ink-stained poetry. I’d heard those words professed by lovers, drunken men, and snakes... at times, all one and the same. I'd heard it threatened through clenched teeth and seen it hanging from a noose. I’d heard it in English, French, Italian, and even Albanian.

I’d heard it enough to know that it did not mean what it was supposed to mean. And therefore, those words did not trigger in me requited sentiments, no, no, instead they brought cold anger and contempt.

For I had already learned that love is a verb, not a capricious noun made up of pheromones, hormones, and other such sweet aphrodisiacs. So the rule was don’t tell me, show me. Because if I can’t tell by your actions that you love me, then let’s just stick with like.

My husband was a quick study and he took my warning seriously. He soon figured out that to get into my heart he needed to demonstrate my three little words... blood, sweat, and tears.

After all, those actions of love were given for me by a King and I would expect no less from a husband. He gave willingly all that was needed, and eventually I proposed to him.

These words were read at our wedding, “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death;” Sgs 8:6. And while we sport no visible branding, no colorful appellation tattoos, no vials of blood worn ‘round the neck... they are there in spirit.

Now when I hear the words “I love you”, I am at peace because he has earned the right to say them.

Picture credit: Armor for Man and Horse: The Metropolitan Museum of Art

The Betrothal

Before Kimani was born, I stressed about such things as whether she might go to college, or get married, or drive a car. My husband, who is the more relaxed of the two of us, was convinced she would do all those things. I let him rest in his denial...

Fast forward a year and a half. Did you know that lots of people with Down syndrome get married, mostly to each other? How fitting that such trusting and guileless people should find love in each other.

There are a lot of boys out there that could end up the lucky man... There’s Finnian, Sheridan, and Charlie just to name a few... but one little guy has already captured this potential MIL’s heart... and his name is Ozzie.

(Those who really know me well are singing... “Oh no, oh no, here we go now....”)

No, not that Ozzie... this Ozzie.

Oh wait... that was before she kissed him. Here he is in his princely form.

I met his dad out in blogland a while ago. We became friends and since then our families have had the good fortune to be able to meet up in NYC at the Museum of Natural History. It was Kimani and Ozzie’s first date ♥ ♥ ♥ Aren’t they cute together? Don’t you just love how they are checking each other out?



Ok, so she looks a little wary of the situation but we have plenty of time for him to grow on her.

10 Years Ago Today

Crossing the Chasm

For some reason when I look at this picture, I am transported in reverse across the chasm in time to the days when he was still all a mystery to me. A time when staring into those eyes could make my skin tingle and my heart race. Back then, I swear, my jaw would tighten and my incisors would stretch at the thought of sinking a bite into that neck.

Twelve years time has relegated those transcendent intimacies to mere memories triggered by the two dimensional, split-second capture of the abstract, yet sublime, husband.

Next week, in celebration of our tenth anniversary, we go away alone to a very romantic place. Yeah baby, 3D here we come!

Not Like This

On occasion I have given thought to how I might want to die. The results of such mind exercises are always the same; an unexpected bullet to the back of head or I fall asleep one night and don’t wake up. I don’t end up in the hospital in either scenario, nor do I have a chance for goodbyes.

It is one thing to imagine from the bleachers, beer and hotdog in hand, how you will be "out" but quite another thing to actually be the player in the game who is facing another strike. It is even worse when it is your child going up against the pitcher, instead of you.

During the early days in the hospital, I did not genuinely feel that my child could die. Yes, she had a major heart defect, but there was a plan for this in place. When her second, more menacing heart defect was detected, I felt the pressure of possibility weighing down on me.

Within days of that discovery, my baby became very sick, the kind of sick that made her whole body seize. I could hardly stand to leave her, but there was nowhere to rest my head in that place. So I would sob in the car all the way home, wondering if she would be ok.

But I hadn’t yet felt the reality that she might die. Oh, I was scared of it but deep inside I still had that nebulous sense of that not being something in my world. Like it just wasn’t part of my brain’s schema.



The call came around midnight. The caller id flashed straight into my heart... the NICU. Just the ringing was making me shake. We were afraid to pick it up. When I did, the very first thing the doctor said (blurted out) was that my baby was ok. They wanted to do a lumbar puncture and needed me to come down and give written permission for the procedure.

For the first time, but not the last, I wondered how they tell you that your baby has died.

A week or so later, my baby girl stopped breathing in my arms and the reality of it sank in. Suddenly there was a whole new category of thoughts in my brain. The tentacles of horror crept up my legs and arms, and twisted around me, squeezing me tight.

I am an emotionally secluded person. Because of this, my husband and I were married in a secret ceremony ten months before our white wedding. For me, promising the rest of my life to my love needed the privacy that such an intimate moment deserves. My child’s return to God would require that same sort of privacy.

You won’t get that in a NICU or PICU. Every time my daughter’s body would begin to fail, a swarm of doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists would come and "work" on her. I would stand out of their way and pray, "Not like this, Lord, please not like this." I wanted them to save her so badly I could taste the coppery ache for it in my mouth.

Because if she had to die, I wanted it to be our little secret. I did not want any other person to share it. I wanted to be alone with her... holding her, kissing her, and whispering love in her ear.

Stinky-Winky

Every weekday morning I rise early (6:15... that’s early to me) to get my five year old off to Kindergarten. I am usually so exhausted that I grab the nearest pair of sweats and a tee-shirt to put on until he is safely aboard the bus and I can go about getting ready for the rest of my day. This morning the tee-shirt I happened upon was one of my husband’s and already worn.

Back in the dating days this would have been a real find. I would have reveled in a pheromone-induced stupor, fantasizing about the manliness that produced such a heady aroma. With each sniff, visions of his killer baby blue eyes and naturally muscled body would dance in my mind.

But not this morning. Today I got a whiff of myself while preparing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Gecko’s lunch and thought, to borrow a phrase of his, “Whew, stinky-winky.” My next thought was to put “do some laundry” on my to-do list for the day.

Hmm, sometime in the last twelve years I stopped finding my husband’s dirty tee-shirts enticing. How could this happen? What does it mean? A mini panic attack set in. I tried some concentrated sniffing, far from the adulterating scent of peanuts, eyes closed... Nothing. Well, nothing positive anyway.

I walked my little guy down to the bus-stop and then headed back up to the house. The tee-shirt went directly into the washing machine. While pouring a quarter capful of Tide into the machine, I contemplated love. Ok, so maybe sweaty shirts don’t smell so good to me anymore but here I was at 7 a.m. washing my husband’s clothes... that’s love isn’t it?

In my mind, I called him up at work, “Hey baby, I wore your tee-shirt down to the bus this morning and realized how much I love you.” In reality I tucked his nice fresh clothes into his drawers and thought about what yummy dish I might prepare for his dinner. Sometimes that’s just the way love goes in our house.

Leftovers

The woman examined her marriage as if it were a plate of leftovers retrieved from a back corner of the refrigerator. Holding the chilled dish in her hand, she lifted the foil wrapped edge and sniffed at it. A stale scent, with a hint of decay, gave her pause. She peered at the unrecognizable mounds trying desperately to remember what once had been there. Nothing came to mind. The fuzzy blue telltale signs of mold were not a surprise to her. Surely, she thought, no amount of spice infusions and reheating would salvage this. Pronouncing it a waste, she scraped the plate off into the garbage bucket under the sink.

A curling twang in her belly reminded her of why she had been rummaging in the fridge. She picked up her car keys and left home, headed down the road to a fast food drive-thru.

Now her husband and three children go hungry.



Watercolored Photo by Artist Anaa

Post note: My marriage was not the fodder for this post, although we do eat leftovers quite often here.