Including the Soft

Maybe it's something about being this close to forty that gives me permission to be myself.

I don't know but I like it.

By now we know who or what deserves the precious time we have to give or take. 

If only we could own our worth from the beginning.  Maybe we do and it gets lost for just a few of us.  Maybe we do and it gets covered up so we can survive those awful teenage years of fitting in or trying like hell to hide that you don't. 

Then comes those refreshing early twenties of breaking free.  Finding your way and introducing yourself to the things your heart pushes for without your intellect's permission. 

Pottery
Poetry
Running early mornings (so the hot girls & boys weren't out yet and you had the sun to yourself and all the Engineering students)
Music
Chocolate
Gay boyfriends (one who said he was "finally ok" he was gay while we were snuggling)
Libraries and almost never bars
Avoiding crowded places
Eating pizza where jazz played and red wine sang

Now, the last year of my thirties brings a peace and comfort that I've known all along but have denied for no real good damn reason.  Watering down.  Covering up.  Blending in with the crowd.  Being invisible to watch all the parts that make the whole.

Now, as we snuggle, I can tell you I'm "finally ok" with who I am. 

• quiet
• curious
• moody
• private
• playful
• impatient
• sensitive
• tired
• loving

and the one I tried to hide the most:

• soft

Somewhere along the years I became ashamed of the attribute of being soft.  To me it meant less than, weak, fragile, incapable, and broken.  No way was I going to be soft.  F that.  I kickboxed, cursed, ate, drank, SCUBA dove, marathoned away from the notion of ever being soft. 

When we were dating, Andy made a passing remark about a dealbreaker.   A relationship dealbreaker for him was if I was one of those "sensitive types."  I lol'ed it off and hit him with a few jittery retorts about how I ate those sensitive types for breakfast. 

When what I wanted (and should've) typed back was:  Deal broken.  I am THE sensitive type.  Your sweatshirts are in the mail.

(You might be amused that this entire conversation took place through old school AOL Instant Messaging.  All of our dating life was by computer.  Surprise!  We never lived in the same state until after marriage.  No two people were more shocked to introduce themselves to one another AFTER the marriage than Andy and me.  We are still introducing ourselves to one another.  We are still shocked.)

We are also really drunk here.  But my eyelids already told you that much.



 

In denying that soft trait, I was trying to outrun the best part of myself.   The part that says, "Nope.  She calls herself friend but is hurting and chipping away at your spirit with putdowns and "jokes" about your weaknesses.  Friends don't do that.  Move on to the next.  Yes, that one.  She looks you in the eye without a thought of moving her mouth.  She invites you in with an energy of acceptance and playful banter.  She is here for the party too.  But not the mosh pit.  Just a small gathering of friends for coffee who all go home before 10pm.

The soft in me sees the hard in others.  It recognizes the pain they are in and volunteers to listen but not rescue.  Soft cannot rescue hard, it can only guide with patient words and loving presence.  I've learned the soft in me attracts the soft in others too and this is my favorite newest revelation.  It feels like a super power sometimes.  It comes out in kindness as they recognize a like offering of humanity and goodwill.  Softness is like light that way.

Dogs respond to it.

Children will call you out every time without it.  At least mine will.

Soft isn't supposed to hide.  It is to be revealed and revered and honored as it has been through the ages.

It took me awhile to see the benefit of accepting softness as a strength and giving it any power in decision making/life's work/spiritual guidance.  Softness whispers, cushions, forgives, accepts, helps, loves, nurtures, encourages, heals, strengthens, holds.  How could this be a mistake?  These things are not bad.  These things are not to be covered up or shamed.  Without them, I'm just a girl in my twenties trying to hide myself away from the world.

Now, I'm a grateful woman in my late thirties learning how to be useful out there in this world. 

 

This time, including the soft.

 

Domesticia

Andy and I have been two ships passing in the kitchen for a few weeks now.

I have tried to take on all of the pre-move sorting, house keeping, children raising, school volunteering, dog walking, general Domesticia (sounds so much more importante when in bad Italiano) when he is under the proverbial gun at school.  Problem is, he has remained under the proverbial gun at school since school started ten months ago. His load never lightens, my responsibilities at home never lessen, and the folded laundry never reaches its final destination.   

Graduation is fast approaching so this too, shall end but in the meantime...

To help out with his stress of school deadlines (week long research papers coupled with ridiculous amounts of required reading, etc.) I've tried to give the man some space in his garage.

In turn, I had no idea we were selling his road bike and our trailer.  But yesterday two different men drove up in our driveway, exchanged folded bills for handshakes with Andy, and business was done.  Transaction complete while I blinked the glint of confusion out of my eyes.

Look out Kingpin.  There's a new Craigslister in town.

I went on to make Beef Bolognaise (ground chicken goulash with orzo), helped Abby create her Shabbat table (complete with costumes, kiddish cup, challah scarf) and fielded phone calls/texts related to our move.  Overall, dinner turned out to be surprisingly fun.

 

 

 (I am getting a lesson about proper Shabbat blessings here.  Even though Google says yes, Abby says no.)

I don't know about your house but dinner is usually the time our family has a collective hypoglycemic crash and civil unrest is so close you can see gunsmoke rise from Abby's cranium.  But not last night;  Grayson ate excuses and drank water but overall, dinner was fun.   

After climbing into bed,
I snuggled with my pillow.  "Huh.  There's no pillowcase on my pillow."

"It's on there, must be backwards," says my barely audible husband.  I check.  Still no pillowcase despite further scrutiny.  "Nope, not on there." I peep.

"I played three hours of baseball with Grayson, sold two of our biggest moneymakers, and made three beds by myself so we could sleep on sheets instead of a mattress cover.  I missed one pillowcase.  One.  Pillowcase."  His words bang on my Domesticia guilt like a soft drum.

"And you found it." *cymbals*

This IS the Easy Part

I recently read an article (blog post) about how married couples naturally pull away from each other (hideout in bathroom) and then come back together (wine/tequila) in a natural ebb and flow that would, if given the proper machinery,  look like a woman having a contraction.

So, marriage would look a little like this:  --------^^^^^^^--------^^^^^^^----------^^^^^^^---------^^^^^^^^^^^(*sick kids, up all night for weeks, ne touch pas)^^^^^^^^^^^^^^----------------^^^^^^^, etc.


Interesting.  More issues once again, stemming from the mother.  When do we hardworking girls catch a break?

I digress.  After some thought I'd have to say I'm in a contraction marriage too.

Sometimes the contractions last much longer than a minute or two.  Sometimes those puppies go on for months.  Barking Bernese Mountain Dog puppies without an epidural.  Oh mama, the pain is hard to bare.

Then, eventually the dust settles, the children get their Cephalexin, and the crushing fog lifts. Contraction over, you're chewing on ice chips and looking each other in the eyes again.

"Hi."
"Hi."
"I've missed you."
"I've missed you too."
"Where have we been?"
"Busy.  We've been really effing busy."
"Let's snuggle tonight."
"Yes, let's."

To expedite the snuggling, I attempt to throw the children into their beds like boomerangs two or three times until they're finally down for good.

"Honey?"
 "Yes?"
 "Do you think this is ever going to get easier?"
"Babe.  This is the easy part."

 
  

 
"Sh*t. We'd better get some sleep."
"Goodnight.  I love you.
"Can you scoot over a little please, I love you too."

The Brady Bunch

My husband and I shared a bed last night.  Not in the biblical sense, this is a family blog and those are things of which we don't speak.

Andy has been sleeping on the couch downstairs for weeks now.

Remember when I was all, "I LOVE the new school hours, he's always HOME!" and so on?  Well, once again, I am dumb.

It's graduate school.  It's military graduate school.  It's an intense one year military graduate school.  It's like he has another family.  Hidden in the library.  Waiting for him in the conference room.  Bringing him coffee at Barnes & Noble.

Oh this new family isn't only getting the best of him.  They are also getting the most of him.  They even get him every weekend.  I bet the new wife is a really good cook and an excellent...accountant. 

I fought off the single parenting idea but it's part of sharing your man.  Before I accepted it, I spun my wheels in resentment, disillusionment, and the kind of tired that brings dreams of moving in with the retired couple next door. Who are in their 80s.  And recovering from knee surgery.  Probably not great candidates for floor puzzles and Hair Salon.

We do win him back for one thing, though.  Regardless of her penchant for cinnamon buns and pumpkin spice latte, they don't get him for dinner.  He sits down with us for at least 30 minutes to eat, hang out, wash a few dishes, and then balefully kiss us goodbye as he heads downstairs to be with them until 1 on the morning.  That hussy accountant and her silent offspring, I bet she even lets him watch Bill O'Reilly in bed with her.

Hmph.  I think I'll make him steak and potatoes for dinner tonight.  A little something to remember us by.

He Sees

 Circa Before Time's Ugly Maw Set In to My Face  2005

You know how you can't see the people you're around all the time?

Like when your spouse walks through the kitchen door with a brand new haircut but all you see is the tone of his hand gestures swiping at his forehead.  You skip right over the physical and straight through to mood.

It would be days before I noticed if Andy's eyebrow fell off.

(Okay so maybe not his eyebrow, look at those luscious creatures.  His ear perhaps?) 

Only happens with people you see every.single.blessed.day.  Like your significant other.  Like your kids.  Not like your super cute Starbucks drive-thru guy.  (There isn't one, I just like to mess with Andy because he thinks there might be.  I just really like lattes.)

Today I was on the receiving end of being ignored, then discovered, then "complimented" in a husband-y way.

Andy was on travel for a bit and returned today.  Like most couples we don't look into each other's face when we speak anymore.  That might've ended in '06 or was it '09?  So yes we are sink starers and mail flippers while exchanging status updates about the day's events.

"Good day?"  *dishsoap, dishsoap, clink, clank*

"Mmm-hmm.  Wha?  Ummm no....not really...crazy day...worked through lunch."
*bills, bills, Athletica catalog, police donation scam envelope*
 "I'm starving."

"Grayson's head has been hurting since morning, Abby's still got the yuk, Tillie ate a headband, dinner will be ready in a few, don't eat that, dinner is almost ready." *dishsoap, dishsoap, clink, clank*

"K.  His head still hurts?  Abby's headband?"
 *munch munch munch*
 Where are the kids?"

"Downstairs.  They're beat.  I'm broken.  Dinner in 30, stop eating Wheat Thins." *clink, clank*

That's how it usually goes and for all I know Adam Levine could've waltzed through the door with Andy's voice and I would be none the wiser.  And Kate Beckinsale could've been the one with dishpan hands.  We just never look anymore.

But then Andy took me by surprise.

He looked.

We were in the driveway, under the unforgiving natural light of le sun, and he took my face in his hands.  "What!"  I demanded like he accused me of eating Funyuns. He tilted my head down so my chin hit my chest.  "WHAT!" I freaked out because of course there had to be a tick or some kind of blood sucking bat bug nestled in my hair.

"I'm looking at your grays," deadpanned the man I married.

"You are looking at my grays." I repeat to my boobs.

"Wow, Honey.  You have a lot of them."




radio silence.




Would you like to leave the room and come back again to calm down, Dear Reader?  I know.  I'll give you a minute to collect yourself.  Lawd knows I needed one myself.

"It's cute!" declared the man I almost divorced in my driveway and just like that we were happily married once again.

Because now I know, he sees me.

He really sees me.

Spousonomics

There was a book sale at the the kids' preschool last year.  I restrained myself and only bought two.

One book is about 7 million pages long so was added to the leaning tower of unreads on my bedside table, the other one called Spousonomics, was relegated to the bathroom.

Being that it lived in the bathroom, it wasn't long before Andy found it and began to dogear.

Evidently it is a marriage resuscitator.

For me it is the Chris Angell of self help books:  I don't even see it but it's full of awesome tricks.

Since it showed up on the scene there have been random love texts from my husband (who did not even own a cell phone a year ago).  Granted, most texts are in acronym form that require mental gymnastics from me who is washclothing blackboard paint out of our daughter's hair or opening the garage door for the third time because I forgot Grayson's lunch box. 

"W. U gt gd sleep?"  says the text.

"Double U?  I got God sleep?" says my slow morning brain.  And so on.

But he is thinking of me at 7am and that is the point.

Then, just when I'm about to unleash my WHY MUST WE ALWAYS EAT THE DINNER fury on my children who still believe I am absolutely existing to "Watch this!  Look at me!  See what I can do with my finger!" whilst also scouring my Pinterest board for some kind of edible meal containing a box of rotini and thawed ground chicken, my husband calls.  Offering to pick up dinner.

I repeat.

Offering to pick up dinner.

It's like he can see us.

And then there's this other thing of magic happening.  According to Spousonomics it's called, Moral Hazard.

I learned about it the night I almost tore my spouse's arms off while he sat innocently scrolling through some car site online.

"Can you PALEASE go make their lunches or something?  I am so tired I could spit on you for sitting down.  I haven't sat down since last Tuesday.  I still have to take a shower, shave my legs, go make lunches, dry my hair, let the dogs out to pee, brush my teeth, floss, check the garage door, lock up...." Neeh-neeh-naneeh-neeh-neeh I nag off into the sunset with copious needs to be accomplished before setting foot near our comforter.

Instead of going on the defense, Andy whispers, "Moral Hazard."

"What?  What is that?"

"Moral Hazard, Honey.  It's in Spousonomics.  It's when there is a lack of consequence that drives negative behavior.  Like, for example an accidental moral hazard -  Me getting on the computer when you still want help."

"And...how is that an accident?"  I ask with every possible jaw muscle visible to the outside world.

"I didn't know I was making you mad because you never told me."

And there was the magic.  Immediately, I was a deflating balloon hissing from ceiling to floor. I never explained myself.  He could not read my mind after all. Every night was a personal assault for me while (on the other side of the male universe) he was just chilling at the computer by 8pm.

"Ok then," the fight in me gone, "Consider yourself told."

And he did.  Because of the language used in Spousonomics, my husband does not sit down until we can both sit down.  Or close to it.  It's only been a week but we have both tried to even out the night time responsibilities.  I still have my tedious rituals that can't be ignored because I refuse to go to bed icky..  Men can do that.  Men also don't seem to get cavities if they don't brush.  Forget about flossing.  Show me a man who flosses and I might just hide my wedding ring. 

I'm so grateful Andy found our bathroom book.

I'm also quite grateful it has graphs, industry terms, and very few shades of gray.

The best part is I'll never have to read it myself.



Okay, you're right, I should and probably will but I'm still totally not shaving my legs if he doesn't pack a lunch.

Graph that, Spousonomics.