Maybe you know all too well that awkward, disappointing moment. When a spouse doesn’t step up.
When the person you’re married isn’t the spiritual hero. And then? Your kids ask about it.
Maybe you know all too well that awkward, disappointing moment. When a spouse doesn’t step up.
When the person you’re married isn’t the spiritual hero. And then? Your kids ask about it.
You’ve been there: Whirling into a coffee shop or dinner with friends. Or talking on the phone while your kids fight in the other room (#methisweek) and you try to remember whether you’ve added salt to the recipe you’re cooking, dang it.
But somehow, the person looking you in the eyes, or on the other end of that phone call has the ability to just…
Be there.
I woke early on Easter morning. It was not the kind of, “Oh! I get, like, an hour more of sleep! I love this feeling!” But more, “Hey, there is absolutely no one else up! Listen. Hear that? It’s the sound of NOTHING. I think I will wake up and enjoy it.” This was before I knew the kids drank the last of the milk = no coffee for me.
Maybe because the light in our bedroom felt hopeful and springtime-ish–and because I wanted to make the most of this day–I thought of the light in the garden, that morning Jesus rose. Yes. I am totally #thatmom.
A few weeks ago, in the middle of this crazy cancer scare, my husband and I went on a date. It was the one where, after Mexican, we had to stop by Walgreens for eyedrops because we were so raw from crying. My heart felt doubled over inside.
But in the restaurant, over bottomless chips and salsa, my husband gently pointed out something in the questions I was asking. He does some conflict coaching and mediation on the side, and explained that our conversation reminded him of listening to two parties in an argument. Often, he can see the perspective of both sides. “But sometimes they would see things differently if they had that graciousness that just greases the wheels of a healthy relationship.” (This is my paraphrase. My brain in that time was a big pot of mashed potatoes.)
I’ve wondered for awhile how to start this post, what to write. I’m still assembling the pieces in my head like a jigsaw puzzle without the photo on the lid, and wondering if some of the pieces have fallen into the couch for good.
I’m hoping it doesn’t feel overdramatic? Guess I’ll just try to be honest with you.
So I should probably tell you that generally (weirdly?) I do not go to the doctor when sick. I’ve taken kids for ear infections and all that, and certainly that time when my son’s staph infection on his jaw made him resemble Jay Leno (also weirdly. And yes, I remember writing about the importance of getting your kids’ behavioral diagnosis.
But still.)
Stress is like wearing a flannel shirt when you’re washing dishes, you know?
One minute, you’ve got your hands in the water, scrubbing, the edge of your cuffs kissing the water. Next minute, the water’s bled up to your armpits. (For this reason, my husband’s told me that in Boy Scouts, they always said “Cotton is death”: If you’re wearing cotton when you’re active in the cold, it absorbs your perspiration, and can quickly bring you to hypothermia in bad weather.)
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