Morphing into Mama

To the Next Twenty-Five Years

On my recent only-four-years-from-40 birthday, Husband and I celebrated something much more momentous: our 25th anniversary.  Obviously, if you do the math, you'll notice that this anniversary was not a wedding anniversary since you can't marry when you're 11 years-old . . . at least not in California.  Rather, it was the anniversary of the day we met. 

Of the 25 years we've known each other, we've only been married for five and a half.  The other nineteen and half years were filled with our first kiss, holding hands, breaking up, remaining friends, watching each other fall in love (and live) with other people, helping each other through breakups, and encouraging each other in our careers.  We had the privilege of watching each other grow from children into adults, and now we get to watch our own children grow. 

When you marry your oldest friend, you know without a single doubt that you'll be married till death do you part.  You know your union has roots that run as deep, if not deeper, than the roots of the redwood outside your kitchen window.  You know that the trust is so strong, you never have to think about it.  Ever.  For a person who comes from a family that acts as if spouses are expendable, knowing all of this brings me enormous comfort.

However -- I don't let it bring me too much comfort.  And Husband doesn't either.  Instead, we like to feel a wee bit of discomfort to help keep on our toes.

See, rather than assuming love is either unconditional or conditional, Husband and I decided before we married that it is both.  We decided this because we think the belief that spouses should always love each other and never leave each other -- or that it is a spouse's "job" to love you no matter what -- can (at least for some people, and I don't think either of us want to find out if we're one of them), drive a partner to act as they choose without considering the other person.  Believing only in unconditional love essentially permits us to nag as we wish, be controlling, treat our partners like one of the children, expect our partner to meet our needs while giving very little or nothing in return, ridicule daily, bicker constantly, and essentially do as we please whenever we want because it is the job of our husband or wife to never ever leave us and always love us. 

(While this thinking may seem extreme, every named behavior in that last sentence was based on married couples I know or have known.)

In our view, love is unconditional when your spouse gets cancer and all of his or her hair falls out.  In such a horrible situation, you stay by their side, support them, care for them, and let them know they're still beautiful or handsome.  But love is conditional in the daily life of a marriage, when you're going through the routine of cooking meals, doing laundry, bathing the kids, mowing the lawn, cleaning the house, paying the bills -- all that unglamorous, unromantic, un-tragic, and mundane shit where those behaviors I described above can so easily occur.   It is conditional because if Husband were to control me, or ridicule me, I'd feel more anger and dislike than love towards him.  Likewise, if I were nagging Husband, bickering with him daily, or treating him like one of the children, he would probably feel more anger and dislike than love towards me.

The belief that love is both conditional and unconditional reminds us to treat each other with kindness and respect daily, not just when something tragic happens, and not just on our birthdays or at Christmas.  It reminds us not to take each other for granted.  It keeps us on our toes.

When you've known each other as long as Husband and I have, I think it would be really easy to slip into taking each other for granted in so many ways as we go through the daily routine of our life together.  That's why I'm glad we determined together beliefs from which to operate, beliefs that allow us to feel secure in our marriage but also keep us on our toes, so we don't take each other for granted. 

This makes me look forward to the next 25 years of knowing each other.

Destiny

"Isn't it incredible that the GAP wedded my love of AC/DC and your love of Audrey Hepburn in the same commercial?  It's all destiny and shit."

"Destiny?"

"Yeah, it's further proof our love was meant to be."

"You are so romantic."

[making-out ensues]

We SO Wang Chunged Last Night

Last night, I stuffed my post-pregnancy-wide feet into pointy high heels, slid into my favorite black, bottom-hugging skirt, and pulled a waist-slimming but boob-enhancing knit camel top over my now chin-length head of hair.  As I stumbled my way downstairs like a schoolgirl wearing mommy's 3-inch heels, I could hear Husband explaining who the hell Luke Perry is to the babysitter.  When I walked in, the sitter's face showed absolutely no sign of recognition -- even after Husband described that little show known as Beverly Hills 90210. 

God, we're old.

When I looked at the television, I realized they were discussing the man with the nod who once made young girls swoon -- with the exception of this one -- because the Wheel of Fortune contestant looked quite a bit like him.  And Dumbo.  My God, I had no idea human ears could be the size of my feet, which, according to my father, are so large I could probably be the next barefoot water skiing champion of the world,  if only I applied myself.  And liked water skiing.

Anyway . . .

Husband looked very James Bond (I prefer Sean Connery, but Husband has Roger's coloring) in his suit and tie, and was so very suave and smooth as he rushed ahead of me to open my car door, which I almost didn't let him do because I had no idea what the hell he was doing. 

When we arrived at the restaurant, we gave the bottle of Dom Perignon, vintage 1996, given to Husband by some vendor trying to get his business, to the hostess to chill.  As the petite young thang glided with total ease to the bar in her 3-inch heels and bottom-hugging skirt, I asked Husband one more time, "Are you sure that's not Don Perignom?"  You see, it's not that I don't know the name of that classy cliche champagne, it's that I can't believe some vendor gave it away to a potential customer, who, by the way, remains potential to this day.  He swore it was the real thing, and while I don't know for sure, I can tell you that it was very, very tasty -- says the woman who would much rather drink a vodka martini than champagne.

For the next two hours we grazed on tomato heirloom salad, crab cakes, sauteed spinach, mahi mahi, and a petite filet cooked medium.  We gazed into each other's eyes, spoke without barely a pause, and laughed over memories, some very old, others very new.  We toasted our five years of near marital bliss and marveled over the next anniversary we get to celebrate early next year: 25 years of friendship. 

After downing the last of the ice cream topped with a lit candle by our bucking-for-an-awesome-tip waiter, we left the restaurant hand-in-hand, our bellies perfectly full, and our cheeks glowing -- oh, and we were giggling.  Well, I was giggling, and Husband was doing whatever manly men do instead of giggling.  I believe it's "chuckling."

When we arrived home, we hurried the babysitter out the door, went upstairs, and engaged in an intimacy that had the excitement of infatuation and the sensuality that only comes with familiarity. 

When I woke up this morning, my cheeks were still glowing (the ones on my face, that is), and there was a spring in my step. 

God, we're young.

This is Why I Buy My Clothes at Target

"I got a really nice compliment today."

"Really?"

"Yeah.  I was called 'pretty.'"

"That's nice.  By whom?"

"Oh, some guy."

"Some guy?  What?  Some random guy just walked up to you on the street and called you pretty?"

"On the street?  Honey, you know people don't walk in LA.  And, no, it wasn't some random guy."

"Then who was it?"

"Just a guy."

"Who told you you're pretty."

"Well, he didn't tell me I was pretty."

"He didn't tell you?  Then who did?"

"His mother."

"His mother told you you're pretty?"

"Noo.  His mother told me that her son called me pretty."

"Uh-huh.  This 'guy' wouldn't happen to be 3 years old and in Tod-lar's class would he?"

"So what if he is?  When you're walking around with some sort of dried bodily fluid on your clothes 99% of the time, you take what you can get."

"I was wondering what that was on your shirt."

Witness the Power of the Spouse Who Blogs

"So I told the Internet my real name."

"You DID?  Why?"

"Well, 'Motherapist" . . ."

"You mean 'Mo the Rapist.'"

"Whatever.  Anyway it just wasn't working.  And I tried and tried to think of other names. I even asked for help, but nothing stuck."

"You mean, the way 'Mo the Rapist' did?"

"Whatever.  As I was saying, I decided my real name would provide better face credibility."

"I suppose.  But what about the two names I thought up for you?"

"Which two names?"

"'Junginthetrunk.'"

"'Junginthetrunk?'  What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything.  But you know how people often mispronounce 'Jung?' If you mispronounce it, it sorta sounds like 'junk in the trunk.'"

"Oh, and that's going to give me face credibility?"

"Well, maybe not face credibility . . ."

"Dude!"

"Then what about 'Baggage Handler?'"

"'Baggage Handler?'"

"Yeah.  Isn't that what you're going to do once you get licensed?  Handle people's 'baggage' all day?"

"This is not helping me.  And stop that laughing!"

"Whaaaat?"

"I'll tell you what: how 'bout I tell the Internet your real name?"

[crickets chirping]

"What would you like for dinner, Honey?"

Single Parenting While Married

When Tod-lar was born, Husband proved himself to be a very hands-on father.  He spent the first month of Tod-lar's life at home, waking every two hours during the night to change poopy diapers and provide words of encouragement as I struggled to attach the little guy to my weary body.  He willingly cradled Tod-lar during his inconsolable screaming fits.  He got up with Tod-lar in the morning, allowing me to get at least four consecutive hours of sleep.  After Husband went back to work, he took over Tod-lar's evening routine so I could have a little time to myself.  And he insisted on doing the 1 a.m. feeding, despite having to get up for work the next day. 

When we moved to where we live now, and Husband started at a new firm, he spent the first month working what seemed to be non-stop.  That's when he also stopped helping me with Tod-lar.  It was only after I'd fed, changed, and bathed Tod-lar that Husband would take him for a little playtime.  After a month of single parenting, I decided it was time for a "Come to Jesus" talk. 

"Look, I understand that you're busy at work, and you need to make a good impression at this new firm. And I really appreciate how hard you work for our family.  I also understand that it's really important for Tod-lar to spend as much time with you as possible so he can know you and you can know him.  You're great at playing with Tod-lar, and you absolutely need to keep doing that because you both love it.  But if you really want to get to know him, you need to see him in situations other than play.  This means changing his diapers, giving him his baths, feeding him, dressing him, all that shit.  When you do that stuff with him, you're teaching him and you're getting to see how he does things and see the choices he makes.  Spending quality time with him right now, in this time of his life, is doing all that crap that feels like work."

Husband looked at me.  I looked at him.  And then I saw the light bulb go on over his head.  It's been shining brightly ever since and has shown no need of replacing. 

Granted, for a little more than two years after that conversation, Husband didn't work as many hours as he did that first month at the firm.  It was easy for him to be a part of the kids routine since he rarely worked weekends or evenings.  Lately, however, Husband is not only working evenings and weekends, he's even working in the middle of the night.  That's when I hear his thumbs clicking away at that fucking portable office -- the inventor of which should be tarred, feathered, and dragged through the streets so every wife, husband, mother, father, and child, can get the pleasure of spitting at him or her.  I mean, do we really need Husband's client entering our bedroom at fucking 3 a.m. just because Husband woke up to take a whiz?  Do clients and corporations, and fucking law firms have no respect for family?  Don't they give a shit that this is how our life will be for the next YEAR, and maybe, just maybe, we could have ONE night where that fucking device doesn't blink it's green light, telling the world that it has received yet another fucking email from that overly-demanding client, right in the middle of Husband and I having relations?  No.  No, they clearly don't give a flying piece of SHIT.  At least not in this money-grubbing, overly individualistic, only-defines-success-by-how-many-hours-you-work-and-how-much-money-you-make country.

[brushes hair away from face, revealing flushed cheeks] Sorry about that . . . I'm back now.

Anyway, I can't really blame Husband for this situation.  Yes, yes, he chose to take this case with the client who never sleeps and who, I hope, burns in hell for all eternity, but if I were he, I would have chosen it, too, since it's the type of case that can secure his position at the firm.  Besides, it's temporary.  It's a temporary, hellish situation with a good long-term gain for our family -- not just Husband.  At least that's what we keep telling ourselves.

But that light-bulb?  Despite his working long hours, Husband somehow manages to keep it shining brightly.  Sometimes he's up clicking away on that berry thing because he got up to console Tod-lar who was awakened by a bad dream.  And when he comes home after a 13-hour day at the office, he changes his clothes as quickly as he can and helps me give the kids their baths.  Just the other morning, I found him in Tod-lar's room with the sleeves to his button-down shirt rolled up, laughing at Tod-lar's jokes while wiping poop off the kid's butt.

So, yeah, the next year is going to be really difficult.  And, undoubtedly, there will be stretches of time when I'm single parenting because that life-sucking client will keep Husband chained to his desk for 48 hours straight.  But at least I know I have a husband who wants to be, knows how to be, and will do his damnedest to be an active member of this family.  For that, I love him even more than the day I married him. 

Evidence I Was Born in Southern California

[The following conversation occurred the other night after flicking from Seinfeld to a show we highly recommend you never ever see because watching it is likely to cause your synapses to unwire, forcing any intellect you have to ooze out your ears.]

"Why do those two characters, who are about to get married, keep calling each other by their last names?"

"I don't know."

"That reminds me of a boyfriend I had in high school.  He ALWAYS called me by my last name.  It drove me nuts.  I mean, why would you call your partner by their last name instead of something more intimate?"

"You mean like 'Dude?'"

"Psh.  Whatever, Dude."

Happy Birthday, Husband

Yesterday was Husband's 35th birthday.  To celebrate, we took the kids to the carousel and went out to lunch.  Then we stopped off at the store to get Husband a little present for later that night:

He looked quite smashing in it.

The Easter Egg Hunt

Before Husband and I had children, we didn’t really celebrate holidays.  Christmas would sneak up on us, and maybe we’d buy a tree at the last minute.  Maybe we’d exchange gifts.  Or maybe not.  On Thanksgiving we’d think about making a pie or something, but we were living in Massachusetts where ALL the stores are closed on holidays, so we’d just think about the pie since we couldn’t actually go to the store to get the ingredients to make it.  We always thought we should actually plan for the holidays, but the reality was we just weren’t “into” them. 

Our lack of holiday interest probably stems from our families.  Holidays at Husband’s house growing up were usually celebrated with his step-father eating peanuts in front of the TV, his mother eating scrambled eggs in her office while working, and Husband hanging out in his basement bedroom reading.  Holidays in my two households growing up were greeted with a little more fanfare, but the memories are either forgettable or something I try very hard to forget.  My mother’s family would always come together for a meal that had to be cooked, eaten and cleaned in no more than 2 hours before Grandma kicked us to curb.  No one actually spoke during such meals since the TV sat at the head of the table.  At my father and step-mother’s house, we’d eat a five-course gourmet meal that my step-mother would cook all day and serve around 5 p.m.  This was nice expect she wouldn’t let us eat ANYTHING until dinner for fear we’d spoil our appetites.  This always made for hostile dinner conversation for the first three courses.  Christmas at their house was especially fun because this was when she and my father would have their annual “money” fight, which always ended with their throwing each other’s gifts out their bedroom window onto the street.  By the time they rushed outside to retrieve them, they'd be gone.  Fortunately, my presents were never thrown out the window.  Instead, step-monster would throw them at me while mumbling things like, “If it weren’t for you we’d have a happy marriage,” type of remarks.  Good times.

After the kids were born, Husband and I decided we needed to get over our holiday issues so we could implant warm fuzzy holiday memories into our children’s brains.  We’ve done pretty well with Thanksgiving and Christmas, but other holidays like Easter have been forgotten.  In fact, I didn’t even remember it was Easter this weekend until someone mentioned it to me on Thursday.  “Huh.  Oh yeah.  Easter.  Huh,” I thought to myself.

Since I didn’t remember Easter, I certainly didn’t expect my doesn’t-believe-in-anything-he-can’t-see Husband to remember it.  So you can imagine how surprised I was when he turned to me last night and said, “I want to do an Easter egg hunt with the kids.”

I was all, “Huh?”

And he was all, “Totally.”

And I was like, “Really?”

And he was like, “Yeah, I think it would be fun for them.  Tomorrow we’ll get some eggs and dye and have them color the eggs.  Then on Sunday we’ll hide the eggs outside and all over house for the kids to find.”

That’s when my eyes started to sting.  And it wasn’t because my contacts needed to be changed, either (which they did).  It was because my husband is so fucking sweet, I wanted to cry. 

So right now, as they’re out buying the eggs and dye, we’re not just preparing for an Easter egg hunt.  We’re actually changing the course of our families’ histories.

Happy Easter!

Still Anonymous

“So the Internet thinks I’m a gold card having, Range Rover driving, botox getting, Prada wearing, LA gym rat, and it thinks you’re an over-controlling husband who only married me because I’m ‘hot.’”

“Good.”

“Good?  Why the fuck is that good?  It’s completely fucking false!”

“Because that means we’re still anonymous.”