April Fool’s Frenzy

04 Apr 2013 3 Comments

by Deb D in Crack A Smile, Fun Stuff, Uncategorized

april 1Three days after April Fool’s Day, the Dunhams are still decompressing from the annual frenzy that is generated by five pranksters under one roof.  April 1st ranks at the top of our list of major celebrations.

In the early years of marriage I was dragged through the April Fool’s tradition by husband, a career jokemaster.  It was no fun trying to compete with his level of expertise.  (As a child he put dog poop in a sibling’s pillow!) But when the kids came along and husband apprenticed them, I had to get in the game. I began modestly with the old standbys: books in the pillow, traps on the toilet, early morning alarm clocks under beds…and finally reached the big leagues the year I sewed husband’s underwear together.

The competition has gotten so fierce of late, that the formation of alliances is a must.  Husband and I began plotting against the children a month in advance.  Our biggest hit was a scheme that required a late night setup.  Giggling like schoolchildren, we snuck upstairs in darkness to cover bedroom doorways with newspaper and fill the space between paper and door with ping pong balls and popcorn.  Suspecting foul play, Beagle emerged from his room with paintball mask donned, armed for an attack.

He responded with flour in the hairdryer that blew into my face when I turned it on.  Principessa had a more subtle style.  She created a fake ‘Failure To Pay’ parking ticket notice to the tune of $200 which husband was chastised for.  Little Peach, a novice at nine, stole and hid everything she could – toothbrushes, curtains, socks – and toilet papered her sister’s room.  Husband likened her to a civilian with a water gun trying to fight experienced terrorists.

The house was like a war zone, destroyed within an hour of sunrise.  By day’s end, more than 200 pranks befell five Dunhams.  No living creatures were harmed and all were applauded for a high level of ingenuity and sportsmanship.  Cleaning up the fallout is a bear, but so worth it.

Please share your best pranks so I can begin my list for next year!  The stakes are getting higher every year and I need new material.

Deb

Love, Here I Come

15 Feb 2013 5 Comments

by Deb D in Love and Other Things, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

i love youEvery year at this time (the Christian season of Lent) I seize the opportunity to spearhead my own crash course on Life.  Some themes I’ve taken on in past years include Gratitude, Non-Judgment, and Giving.  For forty days I commit my focus to a challenge that impels me to be a better version of myself.  Without fail, this practice proves to be life-altering and inspirational.

I don’t always go public with these personal encounters, but when Friend asked me what project I was cooking up this year (so that she might also be inspired), I felt obliged to share.  Marianne Williamson said, “As we let our own light shine, we give other people permission to do the same.”  Or as the fellow diner said in response to Meg Ryan’s orgasm interpretation (in When Harry Met Sally), “I’ll have what she’s having.”  Same same.

So here it is, The Forty Days of Love.  Cliché, I know, since it also happens to be Valentine’s Day.  But whatever, love rules.

Love is one of those words that has no right being just one word.  There’s too much going on with love to box it up in four letters.  Poets and playwrights, saints and songwriters have said more about love than any other subject, and still, they’ve only grazed the surface.  There’s plenty more to learn about love and I intend to do just that.  Experiment and learn.  I’ll notice it, play with it, express it, apologize for withholding it, accept it, and maybe even try to define it.

No one and no thing is off limits.  If you cross my path this month, be you friend or foe, expect to find love.  Love has agreed to be my constant companion.  It’s good like that – very accommodating – though very sneaky too.  Love tends to hide in the most unlikely places.  No worries, I have a nose like a basset hound.  And a black belt in gratitude.  Love, I will hunt you down if I have to.  But I don’t expect it will come to that.

If you intend to join me on this journey, buckle up.  It’s never an easy stroll through the park.  This conscious living thing is Work.  I’m not talking about ladling on an extra dose of hugs and kisses to the dear ones.  It’s easy to love them. No ma’am, I’m talkin’ love thy enemies – the ones who tick you off and stir the pot and make you want to say those curse words that fit so nicely in the angry space.  That’s the love I want to know – the kind that claims dominion over evil.

It’s you and me against the world, love.  Let’s do this thing.

Deb

p.s. After writing this piece and before posting it, a neighbor’s house was broken into.  I offered up my blessings for the people who had been violated, then another for the criminal – for whatever is going on for him/her that motivates stealing.  Hard to suspend the judgment, but I’m throwing some love in that direction and the judgment is caving.  Powerful stuff love is.

A Sensitive Boy

29 Jan 2013 5 Comments

by Deb D in Insights, Love and Other Things, Parenting, The Jig Is Up, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

Part I:  A Vicious Cycle

Once upon a time there was a sensitive boy.  He cried at the drop of a hat.  This annoyed the boy’s father who tried to toughen him up.  “Don’t be a sissy!” Dad said, which made the boy want to cry even more.  But he knew it wasn’t safe.  Instead, the boy choked back his feelings and hid them deep down in his belly where only he could feel the crying.

The crying worried mother, too.  “You’re too sensitive.” She said.  “You’ll get bullied.”  The boy believed her.  With practice, the boy became better at hiding his feelings.  But he didn’t stop feeling them.  Mother noticed that sometimes the boy’s face would turn red.  His lip would curl and tremble and his body would tense.  But he never cried again.

Over time, the boy would learn all sorts of tricks to hide his feelings.  He hid them so well, that even he couldn’t find them after a while.  One day, when the boy became a man, his wife would complain that he was devoid of emotion and unable to truly connect.  This confused the boy.

When the boy had a son of his own, he began to feel something stirring inside himself – something peculiar but familiar.  One day, the son got his feelings hurt and began to cry.  The boy, now a dad, wanted to cry too.  It hurt him to see his son hurting.  He remembered feeling that way when he was young.  But crying was wrong – dangerous even.  So the dad did what he thought was right and told the son to stop crying.  And the son did.

………

Part II – “My Son Is Too Sensitive”  – Is It True?

There is a story we tell ourselves about who we are and how it is.  We are too this.  Too that. Not enough of anything.  Every story is a variation of this shouldn’t be happening. Who would we be without that story?

Welcome to ‘The Work’ a la Byron Katie.  A process of inquiry.

I worry about my son because he’s too sensitive.  I want him to stop crying when his feelings are hurt.  And especially in public.  If he was tougher I wouldn’t worry about him being bullied.  I don’t want to see him hurting.  I don’t want him to get hurt because of the crying.

Belief:  My son will get hurt if he cries

  1. Is it true?   Yes
  2. Can you absolutely know that it’s true, that your son will get hurt if he cries?  No
  3.  How do you react, what happens, when you believe that thought? I get scared and angry and worried.  I try to toughen him up.  I try to help him not to feel.  I feel like it’s my job to change him.
  4.  Who would you be without the thought ‘my son will get hurt if he cries.’  I’d relax about him.  I’d comfort him instead of yell at him to stop crying when he’s hurting.  I’d be a parent who loves her sensitive son because I do love him so much.  I’d see how caring he is.  How he can sense what other people are feeling – which is a gift. I’d be able to love him and not worry about how sensitive he is. I’d support him.

Turn the thought around (to statements that are as true or truer): ‘My son will get hurt if he cries’

  1.  To the self:  ‘I get hurt when he cries.’  (True.  I suffer with worry when I think of what his crying means.)
  2. To the opposite:  ‘My son won’t get hurt if he cries.’  (Might be true.  I don’t know how people will react.  Maybe he’ll meet with sympathy and understanding.)
  3.  To the other:  ‘I hurt my son when he cries.’  (True!  I disrespect his feelings.  I dishonor him when I tell him he shouldn’t feel the way he feels. I do what I’m afraid others will do to him – I hurt him when he cries!)

……

I realize I have two sons in my mind – the son I have and the son I think I want him to be.  The real one and the one I imagine to be better and safer.  I try to change him because there’s fear inside that I don’t know what to do with.  When I question my thoughts and meet my fear, I see that in my desire to protect him, I am actually hurting him.  Where is the love in that?

I don’t have to change what I believe. But I can, and should, question it.   Because if I don’t challenge my thoughts, they plague me.  So I ask myself again, who would I be, who would he be, without these thoughts? Can I find one stress-free reason to keep my thoughts?  In the questioning, I begin to see that none of my thoughts are true.  On the other side of the questions is freedom – for both of us.

It turns out, the world is perfect.  It’s what I think about the world that needs work.

 

Oh, The Places We Go

12 Jan 2013 2 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

In one week I am informed that two of my friends have cancer.  Another has died.  I’m at that age when really tough things happen at an increasing frequency – divorce, illness, death.  It’s happening all around me, but not currently to me.  So instead of the drama of utter despair, I have the luxury of a more detached melancholy.   A friend’s cancer reality will not change my day to day life, but it does change my view of the world.

Allowing myself to go to ‘that place’ – the deep fear place where the world is unsafe – is a slippery slope.  I fear I will be swallowed up by demons of all kinds and never climb out.  But go, I do, because it pulls me in.

I see myself sitting before God with childlike eyes and grown-up concerns.  I throw no tantrum, nor even ask for help.  I simply sit.  No questions come.  Perhaps because I know there is no answer – at least not one that I will understand or agree with.

All of my beliefs and convictions about life are pulled out of me and laid on a virtual table before me.  I sort through them, easily discarding those that suddenly, no longer have value.  Like the one that makes me floss every day and fret over the dirt on the floor.  The rest of the pieces I re-arrange, trying to make them fit together.  These trinkets are an awkward excuse for a belief system.

My child sitting beside me calls to me from what seems like a distance.  I catch myself daydreaming and scoop up the pieces scattered in my mind, tucking them away in a safe place.  I will examine them again, perhaps later, when the kids are in bed and my confidant comes home.

For now, I will continue my superfluous day wearing a new set of glasses.  Not the rose-colored ones, nor the sunglasses.  Today, I see clearly, almost too clearly – like when the eye doctor adds drops to your eyes that dilate them.  If only I could block out the light.  This new vision is just too much.

One week later, I return to a more comfortably numb state of being.  The “meaning of Life and Death” is not in every sip of coffee anymore.  My normal, slightly cloudy, vision is back.  I walk down the street called “My Life”.  It is flat terrain for now.  But I can’t help looking  back to see what it was that I kept tripping on.  And to be sure that whatever it was, is not following me.

New Rules

06 Jan 2013 6 Comments

by Deb D in Reconciling, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

2013Every year I denounce New Year tradition and proclaim my distaste for the practice of resolution-setting.  I suspect it has some relationship to my inner teen who still rebels against what she ‘should’ do.  Or the adult me who finds certain practices trite.  I mean really, how many times can we disappoint ourselves by setting up lofty expectations that crash and burn before Valentine’s Day?  We mean well, I’m sure.  There is nobility in wanting to improve ourselves.  But when we fail, as we so often do before year-end, bitterness sets in and we end up feeling worse about ourselves.  Silly mortals.

That being said, I’m willing to risk disappointment this year because I need a kick in the pants.  If you’re an avid follower of this blog (thank you) you know that my posting frequency has slacked.  I could blame life for getting in the way, but we all know that’s a grossly overused excuse.  Nor can I claim lack of inspiration; life is too rich for that.  My problem seems to be a set of impossibly high standards.  You see, I want to inspire and motivate and educate.  I want to write only meaningful material.  I want to entertain you.   I want, I want, I want.  Mercy!  The wanting gets in the way of the doing.  And writing is something I really want to do.

So I’ve decided to change my own rules. (Calling them rules instead of resolutions might make them stick.)  I can’t promise to be a writing rockstar, but I can promise to write.  This year, that will have to be enough.  So here goes:

Chaos and Clarity Rules 2013

1.  I reserve the right to post even when the content is not profound.  Sometimes simple is better.

2.  I will write about life as I see it, not as the world might wish to hear it.  That means things might get uncomfortable from time to time.  Reality isn’t always pretty.

3.   I plan to write once per week.  This will be more likely if Rules #1 and #2 are followed.

4.  I will not chastise myself for breaking any of the rules.

Simple, right?  Cross your fingers and toes my friends.  And comment and share on blog posts, even if you disagree with me.  I respect differences in opinion and enjoy the occasional debate.  I promise to behave if you do.

Happy New Year!

Deb

Ode To Twinkie

19 Nov 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

Thirteen year old son and I sped through town like our lives depended on it.  In total, we hit five convenience stores and one major food store.  No, we weren’t pulling a Bonnie and Clyde, heisting these stops for cash.  But it felt like it.  With hearts racing, we considered all manner of threats at our disposal to get what we wanted.  We were desperate to find a single, traditional, gorgeous, Twinkie – the icon of my childhood.

My father was the first to break the news to me.  “Are you in mourning?” he asked, and went on to detail the tragic shut-down of Hostess, Inc.  I could scarcely believe my ears.

Those who have known me only since adulthood will be shocked to hear of my intense and solemn reaction to this news.  I haven’t eaten sugar, much less a processed treat, in fifteen years or more.  But for the twenty years prior, junk food comprised the majority of my diet.  So fond was I of Hostess snacks that a friend in college bought me boxes of them as a birthday gift.

For years I have chosen not to indulge, but now, being told that I can’t ever have another Hostess fix, well, that’s a new ball game altogether.

Just last week in the grocery store, nine year old daughter lamented that she had never tasted a Twinkie.  I refused her request on the grounds that we already had too much candy in the house from Halloween.  “Maybe after the holidays I’ll buy one for you,” I half-promised.  Little did I know that she may never get the chance to experience the joy of a Hostess cake. This is the real reason, I rationalized, for my frenzied search.  How could I live with myself if my youngest daughter never tasted a Twinkie?

Beagle was all too willing to join in the fun, pleased as punch to conspire with his ridiculously health-conscious mother in the hunt for junk food.  “I’ve never seen this side of you.” He said with amusement.

At one stop, Beagle tried bribing the young clerk for one of the last eight Twinkies he had cleared from the store shelf for himself.  “Nope, I’m freezing them for later.” The clerk coldly informed.  And I couldn’t blame him.  Every man for himself in cases such as these.

Our efforts yielded a sparse assortment of Hostess cakes – enough for each family member to sample only a slice of each.  During a bittersweet ceremony befitting deceased royalty, we consumed our plate of goodness.  We nibbled with respect, sharing memories of our first Twinkie encounter, voting on our favorite cake, and lamenting our future loss.  It felt as if my childhood was being ripped away bite by bite.

I had considered saving one Twinkie for posterity.  But then I remembered that I’m all grown up, sort of.  And contrary to urban myth, Twinkies do have an expiration date.  Succumb we must to reality.  It appears that Tallahasse (in Zombieland) was right when he predicted, “There’s a box of Twinkies in that grocery store.  Not just any box of Twinkies, the last box of Twinkies that anyone will enjoy in the whole universe.”

Sad, sad, times.

Loving Baby Teen

07 Nov 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Growing Up, Parenting, Uncategorized

I wish I could tell you what we were fighting about, teen daughter and I.  But I don’t remember.  There was a disagreement, I guess.  Or maybe just a misunderstood intention.  Whatever the cause, it took me by surprise – for the millionth time.

It’s like that these days – parenting a teen.  One minute I’m cruising through a benign day without conflict, and the next moment I’m ripped from the illusion of peace into a full-blown drama.  With increasing frequency this scenario unfolds.  Yet still I fail to divert it.  I feel as helpless in this regard as I would trying not to fall out of bed.  And the only way to prevent that is to put up a barrier.

I’ve tried that, putting up a barrier between me and Principessa .  But it feels all wrong blocking her out.  I want to be a good parent, a constructive communicator, a positive influence.  But truthfully, I don’t always know how.  And I don’t always know her.  She is changing, as she should be.  As we all do.

I try to glean wisdom from my own experience as a teen and come up short.  I recall only years of unrest followed by an extended period of regret and blame.  My intention to be different – to overcome the stereotypical strain in the parent/teen relationship – falls unanswered to the bottom of the wishing fountain like a heavy coin.

Perhaps my wish is all wrong.  It does seem delusional to hope that we will be the first mother-daughter pair in history to emerge unscathed from the formative years.  But still, I wish.

Because I made a promise so long ago when I birthed her, my first baby.  Standing over her crib, staring into an angelic face, I vowed that I would protect her and nurture her and never, ever, make her doubt my love for her.  I prayed in earnest for the wisdom and courage to be the mother of my dreams to this deserved little being.

Sometimes I think I am that mother.  Other times I feel like the mother I battled at fifteen, beaten down and weary from repeated rides on the emotional roller coaster.  If only I could keep myself on stable ground.  This is the key I need – a way to hold steady whilst the teen tornado swirls around me.

I remind myself that teenhood is tough.  Impossible at times, as I recall.  No matter how overwhelmed I am, my adult life can never compare to the confusion, excitement, and uncertainty of the teen years.  With this in mind, I loosen my grasp on utopian ideals and renew a promise made long ago to the infant version of my young lady.

I will still love you and protect you and nurture you with the fever of a new mother, but add to that the wisdom of a seasoned one. Fifteen years ago you gave me the gift of motherhood – a gift I cherish more than any other.   I renew my commitment to that gift with a strength and compassion equal to ten million mothers.

 Principessa, you are growing into the person I tried to imagine when I first met you.  And I couldn’t be more amazed.  You are perfectly you.  And I am me.  I cannot guarantee that we will not hurt each other as we grow – we are as human as always.  But I can promise that I will never love you less than I did when I first held you in my arms.

 Spread your wings, then.  Take the world (and your mother) head on, and be the strong, independent woman you are.   You will always have me, you will always be my baby, and you will always have a home in my heart.

Girl In Hiding

27 Oct 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Growing Up, Uncategorized Tags: , ,

If I showed you who I want to be – showed you the stuff that makes my heart sing – you might laugh, and I would be regretful for exposing myself.  So I choose not to show you.  I keep my dreams, beautiful dreams, in a cocoon where they are safe.    I would rather hide them and protect them than risk losing them to ridicule.

I don’t dare to show you who I am inside because it’s the only part of me that I believe is beautiful.  And I don’t want you to tell me otherwise.  I’m afraid that if you see the real me, you won’t see the perfection and then I’ll have a decision to make – to believe your opinion or my own.  And, well, I haven’t always been convinced that my opinion of myself is accurate.  Because it’s hard to tell who’s right.

The me inside, way down deep, hasn’t been found out, not completely.  But sometimes it leaks out.  It can’t help itself.  It sees its reflection in a word, a thought, a loving expression, and it can’t contain all its beauty.  So it speaks or writes or sings or dances.  It wants nothing more than to share its magical vision.

Sometimes, when the beauty escapes, people say ‘ah’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘you are so wonderful.’  But the beauty is shy.  It scares easily.  It hasn’t learned to trust the world.  If the world sees how great it is, the world will demand more, on a schedule, and will expect its money’s worth.  The heart will learn to expect too.  And demand from itself.  And the heart will have to deliver even when it wants to rest in the quiet of its cocoon where it can hear the truth and replenish.

The heart can’t see clearly when people crowd around telling it this and that.  So it stumbles, and worries that people will be disappointed .  Maybe they’ll say, ‘You’re not so beautiful after all.’ And the heart’s fear will have been confirmed.

It’s safer then, to stay hidden inside.

Playing Small

04 Jul 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Insights, Parenting, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

A friend, sitting by the community pool with several other mothers, listens with increasing irritation to their animated conversation which resembles a verbal contest.  The main theme: busyness.  The object of the game: one-upsmanship.   Who can claim the prize for the Most Overworked Mother?

Each mother in succession pipes in her list of parenting woes expecting sympathy, horror, or dare I say, admiration from the others.  The group serves as a collective listener though one is not convinced that they actually hear each other.  Rather, each is distractedly plotting her own strategy.

One woman, wearing busyness like a badge, pulls ahead in the game.  She has multiple children in multiple sports and activities.  None, of course, are grateful for what mother does to enhance their lives.  The conversation takes on a dramatic volume and pitch as this mother concludes with sweeping gestures to enhance her case.

Who will be crowned the winner?  Which poor, selfless, overworked mother has ‘it’ the worst?  Like a typical round of Monopoly, there is no end to this game.  The only real winner is the one who chooses not to play.  This is the mother who knows that complaining and blaming equal playing small.  This mother knows that an over-scheduled child does not make the schedule.  Mother does.

The pattern of giving too many yes’ and no enough no’s is one I’m familiar with.  In the blink of an eye, the family calendar fills to capacity and begins to bust at the seams, leaving mother in a puddle of exhaustion at the end of a day.  And always, though I forget sometimes, I am in control.

The desire to give children the world can obscure a mother’s judgment.  It can trick her into attempting to juggle flaming torches and spin plates on sticks while walking a tightrope.  When she tries this stunt and fails – because she will – mother may fall to the ground and, without thinking, blame her child for pushing her off the rope.  Silly mother.

Instead of egging her on with ooh’s and aah’s like a crowd at the circus, mother’s friends could say these words:

Get down here before you hurt yourself!  Your children need you in one piece.  You don’t have anything to prove.  There is no prize for scaling tall buildings in a single bound.  Your prize is here on the ground.  It is waiting for you to stop running around long enough to pick it up and hug it and tell it how much you love it.

 The prize will understand, eventually, if the love words include a ‘no’ here and there.  It may even thank you some day for setting limits in order to preserve sanity and closeness and family time.  At the very least, you will have prevailed in the Game of Life because you chose not to compete.  Instead of playing small, you kept your eye on the prize, your feet on the ground, and your heart in a grateful place.

You Can’t Judge Love By It’s Cover

18 Jun 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Love and Other Things, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

June 17th happens to be Father’s Day which happens to be my oldest daughter’s birthday which happens to be my wedding anniversary.  Guess which one never gets recognized?

Husband and I had exactly two years as a married couple before baby number one arrived.  That amounted to one anniversary trip/dinner/celebration.  Had I known it would be the last, I would have set my sights higher than a Bed and Breakfast in Maine.

For years we’ve consoled ourselves with the mutual agreement that there would be no hard feelings about a triviality like a date on the calendar.  Instead of coveting time alone we would, forever more, share our celebration with multiple reasons to be grateful.  Nary a greeting card has passed between us on this date for 15 years.  But this year, my Year of Thank Yous, is different.  This is the year I may breathe my last.  And if it is, there’s a thing or two I want to say about the man who took me on for better or for worse.

There are times when I actually hate the man who so easily pushes my buttons – and I let him know.  To the credit of his pit-bull demeanor, husband can take it. Though I try not to abuse this fact, I appreciate that he is rock solid and nearly immune to the depths of my moods.  Which is probably why, although I didn’t know it at the time, I married him.  He is fearless in the face of….me.

This was perfectly illustrated from our inauspicious beginning.  Imagine if you will, a very tired me after a long day of skiing at unusually high altitudes.  My beloved invited me to walk on the romantic shores of Lake Tahoe while we waited for our ferry.  But I wanted to sit.  Seeing that I wouldn’t go easily, he started down the pier toward the beach without me.  As he reached the end, he began yelling  – demanding actually – in front of a crowd, that I come for a walk.

Here’s the thing.  I hate being told what to do.  HATE it.  Especially when it resembles antiquated ‘woman is subservient to man’s wishes’ logic.  So I reacted poorly.

I stormed down the pier after would-be husband, calculating how many of Deb’s Code Of Conduct rules he was violating.   Immediately upon reaching him I launched into a string of infractions, “How dare you! If you think for one minute that you can command me and I’ll obey…….”

After ranting for a while I noticed that he was smiling.  Strange.  He should be mad at me.  But instead he looks like the cat who ate the canary.  Why?

“Are you done yet?” would-be husband asked with amusement.

My response is difficult to admit.  I did worse than curse.  I did something I never had before.  But recall the level of my anger – at least a ten on the Richter scale.  Here it is…..I spit!  Right at his feet.  It was all I could think of to match the imagined disrespect he had shown me with his commanding tone.  I had no idea what would come next.

Beloved fell to one knee, right there on the beach, after witnessing my immense tantrum, and reached for my hand.  “Will you marry me?”

Gulp.  S*%t.  Oh, what have I done?!

It was years before I could share in the enjoyment husband had telling that story.  Needless to say, it was a humbling experience.  One that should have curbed my temper for good.  One that should have made husband run for the hills.   But, reader, neither has happened.

Now would be a good time, lest you get the impression from my stories that husband is some sort of saint, to let you glimpse the other side of the coin.  Husband has his warts too – one that a close relative of his wanted to be sure I knew before I married him.  Before our wedding date, said relative pulled me aside to say that everyone would understand if I backed out.  I paused for the briefest second then laughed mightily.  Perhaps this traitorous relative, like many, failed to see the magic in the union of a clap of thunder and a lightning bolt.  While we were having a grand ole time lighting up the skies, we were also scaring people it seems.

But we can’t worry about that.  The thunderstorms suit us.  As do the moments between the storms when the air is sweet and the symbiotic sounds of nature return.  It’s all good.  And not to be judged.  Because love is love no matter the packaging.

If the classic love poem read at many a wedding were a test, husband and I would certainly fail.

Love is patient.  Love is kind.

It is not easily angered….

….If you have not love,

You are but a noisy gong or clanging bell.

Really?  Because at our house, there’s a heck of a lot of pots banging and voices yelling that could equate to the noisy gong in the recipe of love.  And yet, we still feel ok.

Don’t get me wrong, we try sweet and gentle.  Even pull it off on occasion.  But the transformation feels all wrong.  Like a prickly bush disguised in a rose-bush costume.  As time passes and rose-bush couples split up, husband and I gain confidence in our not-so-subtle happily ever after.

When I say to husband, “I love you because of the reasons I hate you, not in spite of them.” He understands.  He may look briefly as if he’s been slapped, but his hint of a grin assures me that he got my meaning.  He has the capacity to understand me, and I, him.  Isn’t that all we can hope for?  To be understood, appreciated, and loved just as we are?

After all these years I can say with confidence that husband is still my favorite person.  And it’s not just because he took the initiative to locate a gluten-free Happy Anniversary cake (though that does raise his stock.)  I just love him.  Plain and simple.  And I wanted you to know, in case it wasn’t clear.

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