THE ATTIC

Our anniversary was Monday. 

We celebrated the last 13 years the Friday before, just the two of us. With the kids at their grandparents' house, we opted for a casual dinner downtown. Conversation ran uninterrupted by toddler giggles and endless requests. We tuned in to each other without distractions of school day stories and preteen social dynamics. We saw each other as husband and wife instead of Daddy and Mama, a difference often overlooked but one always worth remembering.

When you've been with someone as long as we've been with each other, 21 years, there's a lot of ground to cover. When you've seen someone through every phase of life starting with their teenage years, there's a lot to unpack. When there's so much history, so many ups and downs, so many laughs, so many tears, it's easy to tuck them all away as memories and just look forward to tomorrow. When you've said all there is to say, sometimes it's easier not to make withdrawals from the memory bank.

Good thing we're both stubborn.

We spent Monday night, our actual anniversary, celebrating with the kids. A day like every other where we gather around the table for dinner in our unassigned, assigned seats. The meal was filling and the toddler giggles were contagious. The conversation leaned toward recess and YouTube celebrities while Allison and I played hide-and-seek with the wife and husband behind the mother and father. We snuck a few glances, shared a few smiles, and soaked in our children - the love between us personified.

We cleaned up the kitchen, ushered the kids upstairs for their bedtime routines, and listened as they said their prayers. We slowly pulled their doors closed, blowing kisses through the narrowing crack, then we snuck back downstairs to uncork a bottle of champagne. I secretly bought a bottle earlier completely unaware that Allison was doing the same. We grabbed our glasses and quietly climbed the stairs to visit one of our favorite places.

The attic.

It was our first Valentine's Day in the new house when we created a little hangout in the attic. Innocent enough, it was just to get away from our offspring for a few minutes, a last-minute romantic gesture in a season of diapers and lectures. A moment of quiet from the constant commotion of day-to-day life where we could see each other and hear each other. We never dismantled it and, instead, come back to it often.

A few old beach chairs folded out with an even older chest between them. Leftover carpet left behind from the owners before partially rolled out for warmth underneath us, for Charlie mainly. A few strands of string lights, with burned-out bulbs that somehow survived the move, are strung loosely along the studs and the railing. A street sign bearing the name of a backroad between our childhood homes that we drove countless times on the way to see each other, racing to beat the clock from an impending curfew.

It's ours.

We raised our glasses and toasted, to what we had and what we have, what we've been through and what we're building, and we sipped while surrounded by boxes of seasonal decorations and random items the kids have outgrown. The attic, our grown-up version of a treehouse, is where we go to reconnect. It's a routine that developed unintentionally, but one we both look forward to.

It sounds odd, sure, but it's where we're able to see each other without any outside influence shading our view. It's where the conversation never runs dry even when the champagne bottles do. We give each other downloads of our day, we talk about our kids, we discuss our dreams, we note the goals we've checked off the list and those still ahead. We talk about this and that and everything in between.

We talk.

Sometimes for hours. Sometimes for minutes. Sometimes not at all. We turn on a playlist in the background and sing along or listen to the rain on the roof as the thunder vibrates the walls. We laugh. We cry. Sometimes we laugh until we cry. We revisit those kids 21 years ago who thought they knew everything but had no idea. We acknowledge their mistakes. We celebrate their wins. We show them love and grace and understanding and thank God we had each other every step of the way.

Monday night, we climbed the stairs with champagne flutes in hand and drank to the commitment we made to each other 13 years ago. Still young. Still believing we knew everything but still had no idea. We relived our wedding and our honeymoon, noting every detail we would change and those we wouldn't touch at all. We'll climb those stairs again, probably tonight, probably tomorrow night. God-willing, we'll climb them again another 13 years from now, surrounded by a life's worth of souvenirs, to revisit who we are today.

Cheers to that.

THE ATTIC

November 12, 2021

HOME

 

A year ago... we weren't looking, but we weren't not looking either. At least that's what we told ourselves as we stalked real estate listings in our area over the course of five years (give or take). We knew what we didn't want, but more importantly, we knew exactly what we did want. With two kids and a golden retriever in tow, we wanted our next move to be our last move.

We wanted our forever home.

After narrowing down a few neighborhoods, we were on high alert for any houses that popped up. We're obnoxiously picky when it comes to spending money. Call it penny-pinching or cheap or tight or whatever you want, but we know what we like and, more often than not, we're not willing to settle - especially when it comes to big-ticket purchases like a house.

Then it appeared. A near-perfect listing.

We were nervous. We crunched numbers. We moved cautiously, slowly, too slowly, and it got away. Back to waiting we went. We were fine with it. Bruised egos and hurting hearts, sure, but still fine to wait. The first house we purchased a decade ago, as a young married couple, was suiting our needs. It was the house we brought both of our children home to. They crawled then walked on those floors. They said their first words within those walls. Bittersweetly, as children do, they were growing up and we were sadly outgrowing the space.

So, we prayed.

We prayed and we saved and we paid down the last of our debt from our frivolous spending in our 20's. (Lessons learned. No regrets.) We waited patiently. We waited through hard-earned promotions and career pivots, highs and lows, then a pandemic hit. Our waiting suddenly turned towards defeat and we almost gave up the hope that our dream home existed. We almost gave up the hope that the house we were waiting for was somewhere waiting for us, too.

Almost.

However, God has a plan, as He always does. Our white flag was us letting go but little did we know it would be exactly what He was waiting for us to do - to surrender. We continued to pray. Although our house prayers were slipped in towards the end of bedtime as an additional PS before falling asleep or sandwiched between immense gratitude for making it through another day of uncharted times in a COVID-world.

Then it appeared. The perfect listing.

It was a Saturday, a day reserved for household chores and family time not for looking at recent real estate listings. That task was designated for weekday mornings over coffee, but there we were... looking but not looking. And there it was staring back at us. Screens can be deceiving, so we immediately reached out to our realtor for a showing first thing Monday morning. We counted the minutes, our blessings, and our finances for the next few days until we pulled into the driveway.

God's presence. Crippling fear. Sometimes they accompany each other.

The floorplan was everything we wanted. Open but with subtly defined spaces. So, I built walls. The layout was perfect for our family. A natural flow with plenty of space to spread out but would always lead us back to one another. So, I closed it all in. There were a few changes needed to make it feel like us. A fresh coat of paint to highlight all the stunning moldings throughout among other updates. So, I said it was a deal-breaker. The house was impeccably built and maintained, so I mentally tore it apart.

I was scared and nervous. I self-sabotaged, as I tend to do, and we walked away.

Over the next several days, I stalked the listing completely unaware that my wife was doing the same. We couldn't get the house out of our heads. It checked every box on every list we ever made. Plus, it added new boxes that we weren't even looking for but couldn't stop thinking about and checked them off too. We toyed with the option of building our own and toured a few new builds in various stages of progress, but in the end, what we wanted was already built. We both knew it.

I learned that in order for dreams to come true, you have to wake up.

We reached out to our realtor again for a second showing. With the patience of a saint, she let us in to walk through the house another time. This time, though, we envisioned our kids running through the halls leaving waves of laughter to wash the walls in their wake. We pictured birthdays and holidays celebrated in the dining room. We saw ourselves picking glitter and confetti from the cracks of the floorboards decades from now wondering how long they'd been there. We saw this house as our home and once we allowed ourselves to feel it, we couldn't imagine it any other way.

An offer was made on the spot. We attached a letter I wrote and crossed our fingers.

And just like that, we were back to waiting... and praying. From that point forward, we were strapped in for a ride that we couldn't seem to get off of. Things happened quickly. There was a mix of white-knuckling and throwing our hands up, but the ride moved on regardless. There was some back and forth, competition in a ruthless market, and we attempted to prepare ourselves to let it go if we had to. Then our offer was accepted. Our current house was listed, a buyer submitted an offer we couldn't refuse as soon as it hit the market, and we rolled with it. Strapped in. Both hands up.

I guess what is meant to be really will be.

It's hard to explain how important a house is when you're a homebody by nature. To most, it's just a dwelling. Four walls to close you in, a roof to store your things under, and a place to rest your head at night. I can understand that. For me, though, it's much more. It's where I let my guard down after a guarded day. It's where I recharge as an introvert in an extroverted world. It's where my wife and I are chasing and tackling one life goal at a time, where we're growing old together as we've grown up together. It's where the joy in this season of life is bottled, where my kids face their fears without judgment. It's where they'll establish a part of themselves that they'll always return to even when they're adults, even if it's only through recalled memories.

It's home. And there's no other place like it.

HOME

October 29, 2021

HER MOTHER'S SHOES

My wife drops her keys in the bowl by the door and finds me in the living room. I watch her unstrap her shoes and kick them off in the floor in front of her. Work is over for the day and we’re both home for the night yet neither of us feels like making dinner. The meal plan on the chalkboard in the kitchen has bruschetta chicken scribbled on it, but Tuesday feels like Monday so we’re choosing to ignore it.

Madison walks in interrupting our conversation with her own thoughts and questions before walking back out again. “Will you take my shoes upstairs?” her mother asks and she does because she’s a good kid. Aren’t all kids, when they want to be? Aren’t all adults for that matter? When we want to be? We listen to her steps stretch up the stairs until they become muffled by the carpet in her bedroom.

“Am I bad mother?” she asks me when our daughter is out of earshot.

It’s one of those moments. I have them, too. Sometimes parenting picks apart your insecurities and forces them to the surface like a bruise, dark and sensitive to the touch. The desire to be a successful, working mother when the world tells you to stay home and make crafts is a weight I’m incapable of carrying for her. Mom Guilt they call it. What she doesn’t know is the example she’s providing for our daughter is incomparable. Women can do it all and still have it all and they don’t have to feel bad about it... or wear an apron.

She looks at me with her brown eyes and I lose myself just as I did when we met 17 years ago. I thought I loved her then and even more when we got married, but then she made me a father and I fell in love with her all over again. She became a mother and somehow twice as beautiful in the process. When you’ve been with someone over half your lifetime, you get to see them at their best and their worst. You get to see them fail and succeed and you get to watch them grow up in between. 

You get to watch them watching you do the same.

“Of course not,” I reassure her. "You're a great mother." It’s the truth. I know it. Madison knows it. I think deep down she knows it, too. I remember all the research she did when she found out she was pregnant and how she made all of Madison’s baby food from scratch. The child never once tasted the jarred selections from the grocery store shelves; every fruit or vegetable was hand selected and each recipe was made in our kitchen. Kid tasted. Mother approved.

She read through numerous books careful to only choose the ones with words she wished she’d written. She only wanted the bedtime stories that reflected her heart and not just those that encouraged sleep. She only wanted the best for our little girl. She still does. You can tell by the way she makes her bed or does her laundry or packs her lunch. She has weaved her love into the braids of her hair and tucked it deep between her tiny toes.

Only good mothers know that love is more than just four letters.

I hear it buried in the middle of lectures and lessons, bouncing around in sentences of advice and appreciation. I see it reflected every time their eyes catch each other across the dinner table. I feel it erupt from their laughs flooding our walls and halls in the process. I taste it in the dough they roll out by hand when cookies are on the agenda. I smell it every time they hug and trade scents, mother and daughter, sweet and comforting. A breath of fresh air. 

Loud stomps are heard overhead and we both make our way upstairs to see what Madison has gotten into. She beats me to the steps because nothing stands in the way of a mama bear and her cub. Once in her room, we see our little girl shuffle by wearing the shoes she carried up earlier. Her mother’s shoes. The footsteps are bigger and the shoes harder to fill, but it doesn't stop her from trying. “Look! I’m just like you, Mama,” she says. "You're the best." 

See? Not bad at all. Not even close.

HER MOTHER'S SHOES

May 10, 2017

REFRAMING

A picture frame on our coffee table falls over. Somehow the arm holding it up has weakened over time and so it crashes and collapses almost daily until we stand it back up again. Teenage versions of ourselves smile back at us sandwiched between our grandmothers, our late grandmothers. Young love and promised potential surrounded by four corners, completely oblivious of the home we’ll eventually buy or the child we’ll create.

A photograph, we’ve been meaning to reframe it. Maybe now is a good time.

We fall into the couch, my wife and I. We’ve clocked out for the day. The sun has set and our daughter is tucked in and the dishes have been washed and we’ve officially clocked out from work, from parenting, from responsibility for the day. We let the silence surround us, filling the room and filling us, entire conversations that don’t require words. One of us accidentally knocks the coffee table, a picture frame falls over.

“How was your afternoon?” I finally ask.

We compare notes. We make an effort to share in the stress and the triumphs, to help carry the weight of burden and bliss. Then it happens. We break. The world upon our shoulders forces us to our knees. Dying relatives, surprising health scares from both sets of parents, bankruptcy filings from the company currently employing us both, childcare, car trouble, an overweight dog -- all within the last six weeks. Somehow the arms holding us up have weakened over time.

We’re forced to our knees and we pray while we’re there.

We ask for strength and understanding. We ask for guidance and clarity. I ask that the words He’s given me, here and there and everywhere else from then until now, are heard. Then we thank Him and we brush off our knees and get back up. We weather the storm. We divide the weight, burden and bliss, and soldier on together. Regardless of what knocks us down, at least we’ve got each other, crashing and collapsing almost daily until we stand back up again.

Our perspective, we’ve been meaning to reframe it. Maybe now is a good time.

REFRAMING

March 15, 2017

A CITY AFFAIR

She whispered in our ears the moment we stepped off the plane to meet her. Quick words, flowing sentences, entire conversations inviting us into her world immediately and we didn’t resist. We let our eyes scan the height of her buildings and we inhaled the scent of thick crust pizza and we felt the sense of urgency that came with being in her presence. The rush of New York City and all her beauty grabbed us instantly, refusing to let go -- it was love at first sight.

We visited the city a few weeks before Christmas invited by the tickets we purchased on a whim for Mariah Carey’s annual concert (more about that on another post) and those we had for The Color Purple on Broadway, but we had no idea how overwhelmingly perfect everything would be. We didn’t prepare ourselves for the buckling of our knees the moment our feet hit the pavement. We expected to walk hand in hand through Central Park as we did, but we were surprised by the hard and fast falling for the city that occurred.

The contrasting views of water and nature with skyscrapers and purpose, the taste of cookies from heaven's bakery (or Levain Bakery, same difference), the throbbing pulse that ran through the streets, inspiring and viable and refreshing. It was a world far removed from the laid back normalcy of our upbringing in small town North Carolina. The hustle and bustle was rumored, of course, but it wasn’t until we were swept up in the current that we realized how often our day to day consists of treading water.

Several times I mentioned if I had visited her, New York, in my early twenties, I wouldn’t have left. My wife agreed. This affair with the city, breathing in every engaging quality, was something we both felt. Palpable. Infatuating. Magnetic. We spent the last morning of our quick trip browsing through listings both aware of how intoxicating the idea of moving would be and how absurd our addiction was. While we certainly aren’t in a place to dig up our roots to relocate, there’s no denying the heavy hangover from having a New York state of mind.

A CITY AFFAIR

February 8, 2017

GRACE? CHECK.

Traffic came to a complete stop as detour signs poorly navigated us around closed roads. We were early, the concert didn’t start for another three hours, but we figured it would be best to have plenty of time to find a parking spot and maybe grab a bite to eat before she took the stage. The line of vehicles in front of us turning one at a time, without any sense of urgency, proved the validity of our thought process.

We turned our music off and rolled our windows down inviting the September breeze into our car while we waited. Then we heard a familiar voice. We heard lines we recalled to music we knew and we realized she was warming up. We were so early that we got to listen to her run through a few songs and talk to her band and the sound technician adjusting the feedback of her microphone.

My wife’s favorite singer is Grace Potter and when I heard she was having a concert within driving distance, I got the tickets as soon as they became available. It’s not often the opportunity to check something off your bucket list presents itself within close range, within the stretch of your fingertips. We got the tickets and counted down the days and made a mark on her proverbial list. Grace Potter? Check.

We parked our car and walked around the venue for a small place to eat, all the while listening to her voice following us, loud and clear, passionate and soulful, even during a sound check. We finished our appetizers and the last of our drinks and made our way through the tall buildings lining the streets and back to the stage. We found a comfortable spot in the front row and waited patiently.

The sun started sliding away taking the light with it and in its place were spotlights of purple and pink and red and orange. Finally Grace stepped on stage, kicked her shoes off, hit every note and I fell in love with my wife a little more. After 16 years, I still enjoy dating her - even though we’re married, even though we have a child together, even though it doesn’t happen nearly enough – the journey is so much more fun when your best friend is riding shotgun.

GRACE? CHECK.

September 28, 2016

SHE WAS MY WIFE FIRST

She smiles and I take a picture and I tell her how beautiful she is and days later I find myself scrolling through my phone, soaking in the random memories I’ve managed  to capture of my daughter. The other day, Allison was on my mind and I ran my thumb up and down the screen rolling through endless rows and columns of Madison looking for a picture of her mother, my wife, to stare at. There are very few pictures of her on my phone. There are very few pictures of her within my Instagram gallery and there are very few posts pertaining to her in this space. Granted those places are more about Madison, but there would be an injustice in documenting bits and pieces of our lives if I didn’t acknowledge one of the most important parts of us.

I said once before, if my daughter can be defined as the heart of our home then my wife is the pulse that runs through it. She keeps us going, she keeps me wanting to be the best man I can be and hardly ever receives the credit of doing so. Being absent in the pictures we have isn’t because she wasn’t there when they were taken, it’s because she steps aside. She steps outside the frame and lets our daughter have the spotlight, she steps behind the lens to capture the moments herself… of Madison, of Madison and myself. She steps aside and puts us first and, as any mother can relate, she does so because she loves us. She chooses to put herself last and, sadly, I’ve subconsciously adopted that mindset.

Admittedly, there have been days, maybe even weeks, where I’ve failed to compliment her as I should or acknowledge her place in our home or the load she carries with us, for us. Our days are littered with praise and adoration for the little girl we’re raising together and once her head hits the pillow, we give into the exhaustion of parenthood and full time jobs and maintaining a home and while we thank God for it all every night before our eyes close, I don’t thank her enough. With her, I spread the love thin taking for granted the investment I've made over the years while I lay it on thick with my daughter in hopes to deposit enough to build her confidence, to help her face the world with her head held high.

I found the picture above in my phone, one of the few with my wife in it and I realized I was enabling her. Somewhere along the way, I accepted her choice to stand on the outside instead of encouraging her to stand beside us as a part of the bigger picture. When Madison looks back on all the images from this time of our lives, I don’t want her to question where her mother was because she’s with us every step of the way. There’s no other place she’d rather be. While I tell my daughter what I love about her, Allison still makes time to do the same for me and if this picture proves anything it’s that I’m not doing that for her and that’s changing immediately because this journey without her as my co-pilot wouldn’t be nearly as exciting.

This photo isn’t cropping her out, it wasn’t edited that way; I did that unintentionally when I took it because I knew she wouldn’t want to be in it. I knew she would look back and ask why I didn’t ask her to move or manage to compliment Madison instead of herself… which is fine, that’s her prerogative and I’m guilty of the same crime when I see myself. However, if she’s not going to acknowledge how necessary and beautiful and important she is to this family then I’ll do it, I should be doing it, because I’ll be damned if it goes unnoticed. After all, the greatest thing any father can do for his daughter is to love her mother and I love her more than words could ever describe. Sure, she's the mother of my child... but she was my wife first.

SHE WAS MY WIFE FIRST

March 2, 2015

THE PROPOSAL

She asked again. It was the third time in less than an hour yet I still answered with yes. I lost count of the overall total somewhere along the way; I lost count of just how many times she’s asked me to marry her and how many times I responded with varying degrees of absolutely. She smiles when she asks and I smile when I answer and while it feels like a game to me, it seems like a life to her.

“Stop telling her yes,” says her mother, my wife, the one I married. “Tell her why you can’t.”

I don’t have the strength to break her heart. I’m weak when it comes to her, those brown eyes that light up every time she crawls in my lap and puts her head on my shoulder and wraps her tiny fingers around one of my own. I’m weak and so I oblige her requests more often than not including but not limited to every proposal where she’s asked me to be her husband.

“Do you know what it means to be married?” I ask her. “Do you know what a marriage is?”

She ran her hand through the braid in her hair, letting her fingers feel the sections of over-under holding her shoulder length strands together. She blinked and her eyelashes played catch with the tops of her cheeks and she looked up letting her eyes drift towards the upper right corner of the room. She let out a slight hum as I pictured tiny wheels turning in her head while she collected her thoughts.

“It means you love somebody so much that you want to love them forever,” she said.

I looked at her, my three year old, and let the simple explanation she offered float and settle around us. I looked at her mother and saw my daughter’s smile, decades later, stretch across her face and I knew she thought the same thing. Until she discovers a definition stating otherwise, I’ll continue answering yes whenever she asks because there's no question that I love her enough to make it forever.

THE PROPOSAL

February 10, 2015

ANOTHER, AGAIN

She looked in the mirror and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiled at her reflection. My daughter with the large brown eyes of her mother told the girl in the glass looking back at her that she wanted a little sister, that she would then be the oldest, that she would let her play with her toys and wear her clothes and I stood by wondering if I wanted the same thing. I wondered if I wanted it for myself or for her or her mother or maybe a combination of all the above.

We’ve had this conversation before, the talk of extending this little family of ours again by having another child yet we never come to a complete agreement on either end. There are times when my doubts overshadow my wife’s desires and then come the moments when her fears scare away my fever and we’re left reading from the page the other just read, just not the same page at the same time when this topic is involved.

To think I’ve already changed my last diaper or willed my last burp from a baby’s back with the palm of my hand or comforted and calmed a restless night of teething, to think it’s over clouds my judgment. To think I could have savored the months of exploration and discovery a little more or cherished the days of feeding her first while my food grew cold instead of wishing them away or settled in for one more nap with an infant on my bare chest letting our hearts sync, to think those days have come and gone without being prepared to soak in them a little more feels like a bath where the plug was pulled too soon.

We were so clueless the first time around and yet we managed to create something, someone so perfect and beautiful and flawless that we made it up as we went in the days that followed completely mesmerized by her. Sometimes I remember those days clearly the way she would lift her feet towards my face so I could blow between her toes or the way she threw her head back just before she fell asleep mimicking the exact position she was in during her mother’s ultrasound when we got our first glimpse of her. 

Sometimes those days seem distant, the little girl in our home with 3 years of experience and learning more by the hour consumes us completely and the early days with her seem to slip further and further away. Would having another one allow us the opportunity to recreate those moments? Is that even a valid reason to have another? The love between us personified amazes me anytime I stop to reflect on the life we created together, of the life we’re building together, and I can’t help but wonder if we could do it again. If we could possibly ask God for another blessing as big as the one He has already given us.

ANOTHER, AGAIN

January 28, 2015

PEACE, LOVE, CHRISTMAS

There was a time where brushing her teeth before bed was a struggle yet now she can practically handle the task on her own. Nightly, we motion through the ritual of combing the day’s knots from her tangled curls and slipping her ever-growing limbs into a fresh set of pajamas before she crawls under the sheets of her bed (sometimes ours). We thank God for the blessings He gives us, for the blessing she is to us and we say goodnight. Her mother and I take the steps one toe at a time until the tree occupying a corner of our home invites us with the smell of pine into the living room, we take our favorite spots and we sink into them embracing the silence. We smile. We laugh. We listen to the rhythm of her inhales and exhales through the static of the monitor, the most comforting of Christmas carols.

Peace… the noise one seeks in silence.

The glow of the Christmas tree provides the only physical source of light in the room while the memories we’ve made under this roof of ours outshine the tiny bulbs in sheer volume. My wife and I catch ourselves staring at the ornaments instead of the television, each one telling a story all its own. Shiny spheres and glass figurines we purchased together. Crystal hearts and icicles plucked from trees of our grandmothers’ past. Traditional ornaments. Whimsical ornaments. Ornaments that hold imprints of a baby girl’s hand and foot from her first Christmas when walking and talking seemed like distant obstacles and not mastered feats. Ornaments that represent a life we’re building together, a tree inhabiting bits and pieces of the lives we combined, a glow illuminating the house we’ve made a home.

Love… the brightest source of light in the darkest of corners.

Her excitement was contagious and unmatched when we started pulling out the boxes of decorations. She encouraged us to hurry so she could help select branches for the strings of her favorites and she sang along to the songs crackling from our speakers. She exchanged words she forgot for words she made up and she passed on boxes her tiny fingers couldn’t open to focus on the distracting glisten of glitter in bulk. We returned our stockings to their reserved spaces on the mantle and mentally explored the option of adding another in time. We huddled together after it was said and done to soak in the joy that comes with the holiday and before we shoved wrapped gifts around the bottom, we filled the tree with our presence instead.

Christmas… the most wonderful time of the year.

--

Here are a few posts from last Christmas, if you're interested.

Deck the Halls  |  Lost & Found  |  Ho Ho Hold On a Minute  |  A "Perfect" Christmas

PEACE, LOVE, CHRISTMAS

December 3, 2014

SIX TIPS FOR A BETTER MARRIAGE

Then… she was the woman of my dreams. She walked through the double doors from the back of the church and slowly made her way down the aisle. I took her hand and she took my name and we said I do and we meant it with every beat of our newlywed hearts. We kissed and felt the new metal around our fingers grow warm and we smiled until our faces hurt and although everyone whispered congratulations to our new beginning we had a limited understanding of what that really meant.

Now… six years later, she’s the woman I share my dreams with. She’s the one I laugh with and cry with and laugh until I’m crying with and she still has my name, I still have her hand. Of course, there’s also a little person in our lives that altered our roles of husband and wife into father and mother yet the love we share created her and she reminds us every day just how good we are together.

This journey of life, of marriage, hasn’t come without its share of lessons though. In the past six years, I’ve loved more than I ever thought I could and, consequently, learned more than I ever knew I would. She’s constantly encouraging me to be the best man I can be and the vows we wrote and shared several seasons ago have presented themselves for a game of truth or dare on several occasions… while I’m sure this list will continue to grow, these are six lessons I’ve learned after six years of marriage.

  1  

SHARE RESPONSIBILITIES

While every task or chore doesn’t have to be split evenly down the middle, adult responsibilities should somewhat even out. Whether she handles the cleaning of the home and he handles the yard work or she cooks and he takes care of the dishes, there should be some sort of divide and conquer, give and take from both. Otherwise, one will come to resent the free time their partner has while they play catch up with a never-ending to-do list.

That being said, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with offering to carry the weight on your shoulders once in a while so the other can have a break. Surprises like these go far on the appreciation scale and paying them forward is never a bad thing. One should not be waiting on the other all the time though; the pendulum should constantly swing back and forth.

  2  

DON’T KEEP SCORE

While it’s encouraged to take over periodically, it’s never okay to keep track of how much you do compared to how much they seemingly don’t do. Keeping a mental tally sheet of failed attempts in turn camouflages the true accomplishments under layers of hostility. It’s also a slippery slope which will ultimately let the little annoyances find their way to the surface such as the way he holds his fork when cutting a steak or the way she pronounces certain words when she’s trying to remain polite… those things should be approached lightheartedly and not as bullet points under an angry scorecard.

  3  

IT’S OKAY TO GO TO BED MAD, JUST GO TO BED TOGETHER

Everyone has heard the saying never go to bed angry, to stay up and fight, to find a resolution before heads hit pillows and while it’s sound advice, I don’t think going to bed upset will destroy a marriage. In fact, I think sometimes it might be the better option so one doesn’t say something out of anger they would later regret. However, going to bed together at the same time is important (unless there are limits beyond control such as a career where one works odd hours). Both partners should make every attempt to have the same bedtime and above all else kiss each other goodnight. Chances are whatever disagreement had the night before will still be there in the morning yet both parties will have had a chance to sleep on it and be able to revisit it with a clear head the next day.

  4  

THE LITTLE THINGS

Make a point to keep the romance alive, to keep the fun and spontaneity present by leaving little notes or sending random texts or giving unsolicited and unprompted compliments. Respect each other and try hard not to take them for granted. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the day-to-day operations of running a home and making a life together that a simple “thank you” and “I love you” can occasionally get lost in the shuffle.

  5  

THE NOT-SO-LITTLE THINGS

As obvious as this seems and as much as it should go without saying, it’s worth stressing… maintain intimacy. Additionally, never use it as a bartering tool. As soon as it becomes leverage, it’s viewed through the lenses of reward and punishment and loses all sentimental meaning. The passion and desire get buried under the heavy hand of someone who rations it out instead of encouraging it to happen organically or when the mood strikes. It’s the greatest benefit of being married and should be explored and treated as the perk of saying “I do” that it is.

  6  

TWO BECOME ONE

While I think one should maintain a sense of self within a relationship, I’ve also found it’s crucial to share dreams and goals and desires with each other to ensure we’re reading from the same page, that we’re following the same directions to reach the destination we’ve agreed upon.  If we’re working towards something different, eventually our paths will part so constantly checking in and finding focus seems to be an important part of staying on track. 

It’s also smart to keep the business of married folks as just that… business between married folks. The moment when someone else is allowed to see the flaws of your union is the exact moment when you’ve exposed a crack in the foundation of everything you’ve built (and continue to build) together. In the end, it's better not to invite them or at least not give them an open invitation as the opinions of others will be nothing if not saturated in their own experiences and mistakes and, well, lessons learned.

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original photo by Bobby Davis Photography

SIX TIPS FOR A BETTER MARRIAGE

November 13, 2014

MADISON'S MOTHER

I remember the look of fear in her eyes when she told me she was pregnant. I remember the excitement in her nervous laugh when we heard the heartbeat for the first time. I remember the way her voice jumped an octave higher when we discussed nursery plans and when we purchased clothes for a tiny being inside her belly long before it was due to arrive.

I remember the ultrasound when we found out that baby expanding her midsection was a girl, our daughter, and I remember the immediate happiness that encouraged her smile in that moment. I remember the appointment where we saw that little girl’s facial features for the first time on a screen and it was hard for me to focus without looking at her then the screen then her again. I remember rubbing her swollen feet every night for nine months, my attempt at carrying some of the weight that ultimately served as a consolation that I couldn’t.

I remember the middle names she tossed around randomly in the car or during dinner or while we brushed our teeth in the morning. I remember the moment her water broke and the weight of the bag we packed and the way she curled her hair that morning. I remember the birthing ball and the rocking chair and the beeping of the monitors that stalked her contractions, drawing a picture of peaks and valleys all leading to our little girl’s arrival. I remember pushing pads of heat in her back as she screamed in agony and begged for relief. I remember standing there helpless wishing I could provide a moment for her to catch her breath. I remember seeing her face when she saw the face that just caused her so much pain and watching the memory of those moments before fade from her frame of mind.

I remember the overwhelming feeling of how lucky I was to share this with her, to share a gift I could never repay her for or match in anyway. The gift of life she gave our child. Consequently, the gift of life she in turn gave me, the gift of being a mother that she accepted so willingly and emphatically and without hesitation, a gift she was created to receive without even knowing. A gift I’m reminded of every time I see them lock eyes in a silent conversation or cuddle together or share a giggle or curl each other’s hair or paint each other’s fingernails or sing lullabies before bed. A gift I get to witness and enjoy by association alone, a gift that I thank Him for every night.

I couldn't have chosen a better mother for my child and one day I have a feeling I'll look back to remember this time of our lives, a time my wife is teaching my daughter to be the best woman she can be and a time I'm lucky enough to just be a part of it all.

MADISON'S MOTHER

May 6, 2014

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

The weekend before last we went to see a house we built in our minds as the house of our dreams even though we knew by pictures alone that it would need work to achieve that status. We discussed the possibility of another child to fill one of the additional bedrooms and spoke Christmas tree locations where we would gather around lit by its glow and we sat in silence lost in the could be’s and the maybe’s and the what if’s until we arrived at the location of this particular home.

Its not that we have intentionally been looking to move because we haven’t. We knew when we bought this property of ours where we currently reside that it wouldn’t be our forever home, but we didn’t set an expiration date in stone. We just stumbled across the listing for this other house and mentally moved ourselves in… until we saw it in person. Once we laid eyes on the house it was then we remembered pictures are worth a thousand words and none of those we thought of initially could be used to describe what we were seeing.

Occasionally reality presents itself in such a bold way that it cannot be ignored; such is the case when we put our vehicle in park in the driveway of an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere and knew immediately that it wasn’t the one. This was definitely not the house of our dreams where we would raise a child and entertain the thought of another one. This was not the space we would grow old together as we documented memories over the years in frames on the walls. This wasn’t it, this was not our house.

We left a little defeated with our toddler in the backseat. We pulled into our current driveway, the dwelling we purchased together just over three years ago and found ourselves smiling at the house we brought our baby home to. The house containing the living room where she took her first steps and the kitchen that watched meals evolve from puréed pears to solids and the bedroom where she rests her head in a crib that has since transitioned to a toddler bed and the backyard that helped our little girl celebrate the first year of her life by hosting a party for our closest friends and family.

Sometimes we have to chase a dream to discover a path back to what really matters. Sometimes what we’re looking for is right in front of us and sometimes we need a gentle reminder that home is where the heart is. While we imagine the day will come where we box our belongings and move to another house that allows us to spread our wings a bit more, for now we’re happy right where we are. For now, home is sweet and there’s no other place like it.  

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image source

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

May 4, 2014

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALLISON

Last week, I watched the sun slowly climb into our bedroom windows until it filled them completely. I watched as that sun extended warm beams of light like open arms until they reached and wrapped themselves around her, a hug from the world on the day she was born. I looked at her now, more perfect than ever, and imagined her then in the beginning when her parents first thought the same. I’ve seen the pictures, the many pictures that accompany the first born of any family, and I’ve seen proof our lives existed before we found each other although it feels they never really began until then. I’ve seen the photographic evidence she once went through the stages herself that we take so much pride in watching our daughter transition through. The beautiful strands of red hair growing longer with every candle added to her cake, the growth spurts, the lessons learned and taught along the way, every choice that turned her down a path that lead to where she is right now… with us.

Once she made her way downstairs, Madison and I served a crystal cake dish holding peanut butter layers divided and covered in a peanut butter frosting as requested that we made from scratch the night before. A task Madison dreamed of since she fell asleep before the actual baking commenced, but it was a team effort nonetheless. Madison presented her with a card rivaling any of the designs a pocket on a store shelf has to offer and we poured ourselves cold glasses of milk while coffee brewed in the background. With that sun still shining through our windows alarming the world to begin their morning routines, we crowned her with a triangle hat displaying the message she would hear so often throughout the day and we hugged her just a little tighter and we sang.

Happy Birthday, Allison. Happy Birthday, dear Mommy! Happy Birthday to you.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALLISON

March 16, 2014

EXCUSE ME

Her mother was several sentences deep in a conversation with someone when she walked up to her and initiated a conversation of her own. She repeated the only name she knew to get her attention and so "mommy" filled the room until finally the pointed finger signaling just a moment and the quick hold on inserted mid-sentence failed at their attempts of buying time. Her mother’s sudden reminder not to interrupt surprised her, but not as much as the salty water of regret collecting in the corners of her eyes.  

She tried not to blink.

She tried to control the trembling of her lower lip.

She did what most adults find impossible to do in times when their pride is bruised, she walked away. She left her ego and the words she wanted to say behind her and buried her face in her hands hidden behind the wall of an adjacent room. I avoided comforting her right away because sometimes parenting requires us to let them fall without immediately catching them. Sometimes there’s a lesson to learn and if we don’t allow the pieces to scatter, we have nothing of use to rebuild.

She wiped her eyes and turned around, startled to see me standing behind her then relieved in the same breath. She took a few steps and collapsed in my arms, adjusting her head until she found the spot on my chest that dips into my shoulder… her spot. I could tell she wanted to cry again, but enough was enough. I assured her we always want to hear the words she brings to us, we always want to see the picture she has to show us but it’s important to have respect for other people. Should she want to interrupt someone, a simple "excuse me" will allow her that opportunity. I’m aware that terminology and reasoning can get cloudy for a two year old, but I can only hope talking to her as I would speak to anyone else is doing more good than harm. Maybe the words I choose will marinate and make more sense over time. There isn’t an instruction manual in situations like these and as any parent can attest, we’re simply doing the best we can.

She gave me a hug and said she wanted to talk to her mother then she turned on her heels and left. I heard her mother finishing the conversation she had trouble maintaining earlier. I heard the footsteps of a little girl fade from one room to another then stop. I heard her say just above a whisper "excuse me, mommy" then the conversation came to a halt. In that silence I heard her say "I’m sorry, mommy, come play with me". Her daughter’s manners wrapped in an apology turned invitation surprised her, but not as much as the salty water of regret collecting in the corners of her eyes.

She tried not to blink.

She tried to control the trembling of her lower lip.

I watched as she kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her tight knowing it would never be tight enough. I watched as they both turned towards me focusing the big brown eyes they share in my direction and I fell in love with them all over again. There is nothing more beautiful than the relationship between a mother and her child, the constant give and take of forgiveness and understanding and learning as they go. 

EXCUSE ME

February 17, 2014

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

Watercolor hearts, in shades of pink and purple, painted by toddler hands hang from our mantle. Sweets in the form of sprinkled cupcakes and candy with engraved messages of affectionate sentiments loiter in our kitchen, begging and tempting us with their additional calories disguised as flavor and comfort. Dolls sit scattered in places and positions designed from a two year old imagination, each with a scent all their own and a corresponding story crafted by a little girl with a smile and an extended bedtime. Boots belonging to me and to her and her, too, sit nearby hoping the warmth of this home can somehow thaw the cold soles caused by old man winter. Bags of Valentine’s huddle together assembled and assigned with the names of her preschool peers, ready for Madison to spread the love, a love so big we couldn’t stop it from overflowing even if we tried... not that we ever would.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

February 13, 2014