Posts Tagged ‘marriage’
This photo was taken for a photo tour of my house a few years back. But I go back to it often, because it sums us up. On the porch, having tea, together.
In a few short days (Saturday) IZ and I will celebrate 22 years together. Married. We don’t count those years before because that number is getting ridiculously large!
Wedded bliss? Um, sometimes.
Wedded strife? Um, sometimes.
Mostly, it’s two people committed to striving together. And that in itself, is a beautiful thing.
It’s the nature of marriages, any marriage. You bump into things you weren’t expecting. Life hands you lemons. You make lemonade or margaritas. You squabble. You row. You fight. You endeavor toward intimacy. And it’s not always pretty.
But I choose to write about the good. The beautiful. The bliss. And I will continue to do so, despite the recent impulse of the blogosphere to bare its soul. While I applaud the willingness of bloggers to get real and share the hard stuff. To forsake, if only for a few moments, the urge to “pretty it up” and make it seem presentable. When it comes to my marriage, I blog the beauty.
I’ll show you my laundry. And the works in progress. And weeds in the yard along with the before pictures and the posts about failed recipes. I’ll tell you that I struggle with my weight and staying on task and being charitable to neighbors who kill my roses.
Will you let me take our picture?
“Will you let me take our picture?”
“Sure? What should I do?”
“Just hold my hand.”
My head is a jumbled mess. I’ve been reading some amazing writing* online. Which is a blessing and a relief. Good writing always is. But it also reminds me that I’ve not been writing on this blog, not really.
To my mind, blogging and writing are different things. They often converge and that’s lovely. But not always. Me putting up a picture with a few words below it is blogging, barely. I wouldn’t call it writing. Â You might not agree with the distinction, but I’m loath to use language like “real” or “good” or heaven forbid, “literary” to describe the difference. Wait, wait, you’ll know (real) writing when you read it? I’m not sure that’s even true with Porn, so um, no on writing. You can see how I’m consoling myself, right?
Traipsing through my archives might make the point better. I’m not observing anymore. Let’s face it, every new blogger has a tank full of observations just waiting to get out. Crawling to the surface, it’s blood lust, to put the words on paper. But eventually, you run out of a steady stream of lovely turns of phrases and witty antidotes about standing in the grocery line at Whole Foods. Your three year old grows up. You sleep again, the words no longer playing bouncy house in your subconscious.
Found this on Pinterest and then spent an hour looking for the original source. I can’t locate it. . . but if you know, please tell me!
A Little Romance:
I love Valentine’s Day. Always have, always will. Even when I was a love sick teenager pining for a boy who didn’t know I was alive, the day was a good day.
I’m blessed to be married to a Romantic. Yes, with a capital letter. IZ is a fan of the grand gesture (hello, favorite painting for my birthday). He covers holidays and birthdays and “events” with a lot of style. It doesn’t hurt that he’s an amazing chef. . . we eat well, and food is love in these parts. (It’s a Larsen thing, no lectures) I’m blessed and spoiled and thankful.
Then there’s the rest of the year. IZ would like you and me to believe that he has that covered too. That he is a master of the “little thing”. Those small tokens we tend to over-look because they become so much a part of our everyday life. In fact, he’d tell you everything he does is romantic by definition.
This is where we quibble. Our on going conversation looks like this:
IZ: “See, this is me being romantic. I brought in all the groceries from the car.”
Me: “Um. Thoughtful. YES. Romantic? I’m not sold, buddy. I mean, by that account, my doing laundry is romantic.”
IZ: “It is romantic. Being thoughtful is romantic.”
Me: “Well, it sure doesn’t feel romantic.”
He does this with every chore you can imagine. And often and our conversation is the same. Â I can’t help but think he’s pushing the definition. . . just a bit. But then I remember all those heady days of early marriage and wonder? Everything was romantic then. . .doing dishes and laundry and grocery shopping. Maybe it’s a time thing. Because what was once romantic in the early years, is, well, now a big old chore. An age thing? Holy Cow, an “I’m getting OLD” thing.
I can’t win here. So, is IZ right? Is it romantic because he says it is? Or is romance in the eye of the beholder? Because there are sure a lot of you who poo-poo Valentine’s Day and no amount of cheering on from my side of the field will change your mind. Valentine’s Day isn’t romantic to you. . .
And maybe that’s the catch and the solution. Maybe it’s about perspective. Maybe it’s about choice.
Those groceries unloaded from the car. Romantic.
Those mochas every day when I wake up? Romantic.
Door held, hands held, long talks, long walks, time spent together smiling and arguing. Romantic.
Laundry? Um, I can’t get there. But the rest of it, I’m willing to open my eyes and see the heart giving it all to me. And that, my friends, might be how you keep the romance alive.
Here’s an interesting article from USA Today on people who are “Intensely in love” after years of marriage. Worth a read, I think. . .
Tomato Basil Parmesan Soup:
Poor IZ is sick. He’s still plugging away at work (the joys of working at home) but I’ve been taking up the cooking duties for the past few days. Monday, I did this dish on the side of the couscous box that was a hit. Hardly “cooking” as much as following directions. But I did add my own twist of walnuts and myzithra cheese—hanging out with IZ in the kitchen has clearly rubbed off on me.
But yesterday, he was feeling so poorly, I knew a “Chicken With” meal wasn’t going to cut it. “How about soup?” And with a snuffled nod we were on.
Now, I have a history with soup. I don’t make it. Ever. Â Not after a disastrous encounter with homemade acorn squash soup in 2007. How bad was it? Â Not even IZ could muster a pity bowl and he’s got a cast iron gag reflex. My child was not so diplomatic: “WHAT IS THIS . . . STUFF?! This is horrible. The worst soup ever. What are doing to us, MOM?” Â Or something to that effect because I rememberÂ promptly ordering a pizza and calling it quits. It was that bad. That night we Â all made a silent deal between us: the only soup Wende would be making from here on out was reheating IZ’s leftovers. Done!
That should give you some indication how sick IZ is presently.
I started with this recipe from 365 Days of Slow Cooking but then got serious about the modifications (though, it’s still plenty fattening). I’m sorry, but I blanch at two cups of half and half. SERIOUSLY? Um, no. Â So, I modified and tested Â and modified some more and served. . . and my teenager, who hates all things tomato, ate two servings. “Brilliant and thank you!”
I’m not sure what I’m more excited about. . . that I made soup or that the 15 year old said, “You can make this again.” Â His father seemed equally pleased. He’s still sick, so this soup won’t cure all that ails you. But, it comes pretty darn close.
Tiny vintage floral pick—Santa is hanging out in the packaging area of Mireio reminding me of the Christmas Spirit all year long.
December 1, 2011
It’s brisk and bright—classic late autumn weather to usher in December. A month of season changes and celebrations. An ending to a year.
How did we get to December? This year has been a whirlwind.
We are encamped in our living room—and I’m sitting in our bed (where our sofa should be) writing this and wondering, “Where in the heck am I going to put a Christmas Tree?” Â No, seriously, I’m asking. The living room and the contents of my closet are now in the dining room. Â To complicate matters new carpets are scheduled to be installed on the main floor right before New Years. So, I’m trying to figure out how I’m supposed to get all this put back together, put up a tree, only to take it right back down again.
I’m going to pitch the idea of a bathroom tree to the boys later today, but you know that’s not going to fly.
Photo Caption: This post is going naked. You can imagine whatever image you’d like and insert it in this spot, m’kay?
What I’ve Learned:
Despite my facebook declarations to save my melt-down for New Year’s Day, I met my end yesterday. Stood in the hallway in front of the kitchen door and just wept.
What’s worse, (yes worse than missing deadlines by months) I melted-down in front of the very nice guy who is plastering our walls. Two days after I stood in the very same spot and told this same plaster artist, “I don’t know how I feel about the plaster. I can’t think about that right now, because IZ is in the ER and they think he’s had a heart-attack.”
Yeah, it’s been that kind of a week.
Let me put you out of my misery. IZ is fine. Well, he’s not, but he’s not having a heart-attack or a stroke or anything dire. He’s just under the immense pressure of trying to finish our house and work full time and parent and hold the hand of his wife who cannot keep her “stuff” together.
For that, I’m terribly sorry.
I kept my “stuff” together in the ER. There’s that. I kept looking at this man I love, this PARTNER (because we don’t define our relationship in terms of husband and wife. We’re best friends, lovers, PARTNERS.) and I kept thinking “I don’t do so well with this role reversal stuff.” I’m usually on the gurney, he’s usually holding MY hand. And well, he’s really amazing at that. How does he keep so calm? How does he crack jokes and not look worried and not sit down in a puddle of his own snot and tears and lose it?
He will tell you he’s Danish and it’s in their natures to be stoic and solid and perfectly calm.
I will tell you he’s a rockstar.
A rockstar who is stressed out.
So, yesterday comes along (see this page, last post for details) and I faced my end. You know, the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back? That straw came in the form of an email break-up note and turned on the tear spigot.
I cried. I stood in the hallway and IZ, the rockstar that his is, both held me and cracked jokes to the poor plaster guy watching me come undone, about how his wife didn’t weep a tear in the ER, but is crying over the tiler. He’s keeping it all together, because he is IZ.
Because the love of my life is Danish. And he’s eating his stress. And he’s holding my hand. And he’s making everything OK for everyone.
And I love him for all that and so much more.