Posts Tagged ‘true love’
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.
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. . .
Valentine Trifecta: candy, stuffed animals, a homemade card.
Stop Breaking My Heart Kid:
The 15 Year Old: “So, Valentine’s Day is soon?”
15: “Oh. I don’t really have anyone to be my Â Valentine. Â (long pause, sigh, sigh, sigh) I guess there’s always you. (long pause) I mean, there’s a mom’s love, right?
Me: “I will always be your Valentine!”
Seriously, 15 is breaking my heart. On the one hand, I completely understand those sighs. Because at 15 who doesn’t want a Valentine. A real little romance to moon over, a hand to hold, a person to call on the phone, “no, you hang up, no you hang up.” But as his mother, I’m relieved. Sad, but relieved. He’s 15. I’d like him to learn to finish his laundry and keep his clothes (not to mention those blasted legos) off the floor before he endeavors to win the heart of another girl.
And he has high standards. Which is also good. And he’s homeschooled, which really narrows the pool. I’m safe and I know it. There are no girls on the horizon in the near future. But, honestly, on a day like today, I wish there was. I’d gladly give up my Valentine status to see him smile. A real, “holy cow she LIKES me” smile. . . not the wistfulness I get when I hand him his candy in the morning. Â Long pause. sigh. sigh. sigh.
I know some of you are not keen on this day. Or even if you are, life has brought you to a point where you’re looking about for a Valentine and the only face showing up for the role is your mom. And you might be commiserating with your 15 year old self and wondering, “Why don’t I have a Valentine?”
It’s OK. It really is. Because your mom loves you. . . and so do I. And we Â both believe there is someone special waiting for you. Because we’re mothers and we know. Until then, we’ll happily stand in the breach and let you break our Â hearts. We will always be your Valentine.
But really, pick up your clothes already.
Me: What’s that box?
IZ: Your birthday present. The question is, when should I let you open it.
Me: Now now now!
IZ: Really? I just don’t want you to be disappointed when your birthday comes and there’s nothing else.
Me: I won’t be, I promise. Besides, I know what’s in it.
IZ: How do you know?
Me: I just do.
Me: I’ll prove it. I’ll write what I think it is on a piece of paper. On this napkin, see. And you can look at it after I open the box.
IZ: You’re jumping around like a little kid. Ok. Open the box.
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.