On Getting Older

I'm getting older. At least I'm in good company, though. Turns out, you're getting older too. We all are. Despite scientific, medical, pharmaceutical, cosmetic, and even surgical advances,  you cannot stop the onslaught of time. It is relentless. I have recently come to discover that it is hairy, as well. Allow me to explain.

Picture it - Mother's Day. After church my adoring family had announced that they were going to take me out to the restaurant of my choice to celebrate my role as matriarch of our little clan, since that's what tradition (and Hallmark) require on this made-up May holiday. A few minutes later we were perched on greasy seats at a wobbly table in a local fast food joint.  (Yes, that's what I chose. Partly because I love their burgers so very, very much, and partly because the faster we ate our food, the sooner I would be able to go home for a  much-anticipated Mother's Day nap. Don't judge me.) 

Anyway... the sun was streaming through the window. My children were grinning in my direction (they liked that I chose the fast food place too.) My husband was staring intently at me. I was just thinking how lucky I was to have a healthy, happy family, and a man who still found me beautiful after so many years of marriage, when he leaned forward, brushed my cheek softly, wrinkled his brow, and said, "Is that a hair?" I paused, french fry in midair.

"Is what a hair?"

"That." He pointed. "That thing. On your mole."

Oy. Now those are words you don't ever, ever want to come out of anyone's mouth about you. Especially not your husband's. Especially not on Mother's Day. Especially not in public. My greasy hand instinctively went to my face. (Which, in hindsight, wasn't such a smart thing. Who wants a pimple on top of a hairy mole, after all?)

"I think it is. I think there are two, actually." He said, with great interest.

"Nu - uh!" I gasped in horror, and excused myself to rush to the bathroom. 

In the ladies' room, I locked the door and peered into the mirror. He was right. Though the hairs were blonde (thank goodness!), they were there, nonetheless - long, mocking, and a reminder of the fact that I was getting older. I think all women eventually come to the place of thinking they've either turned into hideous old crones, or (even worse) their own mothers. That's how I felt. I plucked the hairs, washed my hands (because touching mole hairs is gross, you know), and returned to the table. My husband grinned, and inspected my face closely.

"You got 'em, eh? Nice job!" He offered an upheld hand for a high-five.

I figured that since I had officially turned into a witch, I would be able to vaporize him on the spot with one glare from my wizened, cloudy eye. After all, though he hadn't technically caused my facial follicles to explode, he had been the one who noticed them doing so. Same difference, right? When I realized that my pouty stare hadn't worked, I couldn't help but grin back at him, though, and return the high-five - an action typically reserved for victors in sporting events or for moments of great triumph or importance. In retrospect, I realized that it was the perfect gesture.

For one thing, life is a great race. The most we can do is endeavor to run our race well, to the very end, until we cross the finish line and share the fullness of the victory of Christ. The mole hairs and other unpleasantries we get along the way are simply indicators of the mile markers passing by. High five - you're still running your race! And, the fact that I have someone to share my life with - even the unpleasant bits - who loves me through thick and thin is a great triumph in and of itself. High five - there are people in your life who will run your race with you, from the highest highs, to the lowest lows, even if you turn into a troll.  That's pretty sweet stuff indeed.

Since then, I've discovered a few more signs of age, and I'm sure that trend will continue. But, it's all good. Every hair, sag, and wrinkle I come across is another reminder of the fact that I'm still here, and still going strong. Life may not always be pretty, but it certainly is something to celebrate.  I'm getting older. But, I'm in good company. You're getting older too. Can I get a high five for that?

The Making of a Strong Heart

My husband is an awesome man, and we have a wonderful marriage. Since we are two distinct and separate people, our endeavor to walk the same path together often includes disagreement, and even the occasional argument. After over a decade of marriage, I've discovered that the act and actions of disagreement itself is often what leads couples to argue, and not necessarily the different opinions that started the discussion in the first place.

When my husband and I argue, it is usually because I have withdrawn to lick my wounds about how I feel about what he said. That's, invariably, what escalates a discussion into an argument at our house. It's typically got nothing to do with the honest, constructive things that he has said, and everything to do with my reactions to them. Specifically, when my husband shares his needs, thoughts, and desires with me, it highlights all that I have not been, done, or accomplished for him or our family. When that happens, I find myself sinking under the feeling that I am not the wife that he deserves. I know there are different nuances and finer points in each situation. And, I have only written about my role in our arguments. He faces his own thoughts and fears, and has his own culpability, but the main thread under all of our arguments is one thing - insecurity.

When we argue, I cover my feelings of guilt by saying that he's been brusque, or not gentle enough, or harsh in the words and tone of voice that he has chosen to use. In reality, though, I am simply trying to re-focus the spotlight onto him in order to not drag my shame and shortfalls out into the open. That's a lot of theatrics to impose on someone just because I don't want to face up to the places where I've lacked - especially since he's always had grace for me when I have been honest with him. The bottom line is that it is not the words he chose or the way he chose to say them that I'm upset about. I'm upset about me.

Mark is a man. He does not think or talk like I do. But, that doesn't mean that I don't have the ability or responsibility to understand what he's saying, even if he doesn't use the words my delicate, feminine nature wishes he would. I can make the choice to circumvent his heart-felt and honest words because I don't like the way they're delivered, or I can be realistic about our differences so that I can understand his needs and desires, and make the changes necessary to bring us closer.  It is the same with the Lord.

The scriptures talk often about the fact that God's church is his bride. I know that to be true corporately, but our relationship individually with the Lord is much the same. I myself am his bride, and I can easily get confused about what I should do or how I should go about doing things in life. Instead of looking to Him and listening to his direction and instruction, I often shy away from his leading because it comes in a way that is not palatable to me - not how I want to hear it. So, I harden my heart. The reality is that I could make things a lot more simple and successful with my earthly husband, and my heavenly one as well, if I would choose to strengthen my feminine heart, instead of hardening it - and there's a big difference.

The process of hardening something - like metal, for example - usually leads it to be impenetrable. Once changed, it is difficult (if not impossible) to re-soften it in order for other elements to be mixed in. To harden steel, you heat it quickly, and cool it quickly - much like our hearts are quick to burn with anger, and quick to turn to icy resentment. While having an impenetrable, hard substance (or heart), may seem like a good idea, it most often turns brittle, and can shatter when not handled with care.

When you strengthen something, however, the process is very different. To strengthen metal, you must first refine it, and rid it of all impurities. What is left, then, can be relied upon to be consistent and stable, no matter what trials you put it through. To that pure substance, then, other elements are added - elements that are tested and proven to be beneficial. To make strong metal, workers add carbon, which changes its very structure on a cellular level. It makes the metal pliable, and easier to mold and work with. To make a strong heart, the Lord gives us the Holy Spirit, which changes our very nature, as well, and produces the same characteristics in us that carbon produces in steel - the ability to be turned into something useful and flexible. The final act of strengthening has to do with a repeated heating and cooling process - very precise, very slow, very painstaking. This is not a process that the human flesh finds comfortable, but it is one which produces proven, lasting, life-changing results - a strong heart.

The end product with either substance - be it heated metal, or a tested heart - is going to be the same, depending on how the process is carried out. You will either find yourself with hardness that encases impurities, does not allow for the acceptance of new things, and will ultimately end up shattered and broken. Or, you will end up having strength, durability, usefulness, and timelessness. I know which one I want for my heart, and am going to have to make the choice - moment by moment - to embrace the process of achieving it.

So, I am challenging myself to listen to the true words of instruction that I receive - no matter how they may come, or how much they may shed light on my insecurities and shortfalls. Choosing to cover them over will never rid me of them, but exposing them to the clear light of a refining flame will. And, I am determined to give thanks for the ones wielding the refining fire in my life; focusing on the good their work is doing, instead of the challenge it presents to me personally. A strong heart - that can be of daily use and comfort to my husband and my Lord - is well worth it.

I invite you (especially the wives out there) to join me in this challenge, and start looking for the ways that you withdraw from the refining process. Would you really choose a hardened heart, when strength can be your portion? Would you really choose to protect what you already have, even if means never being able to let anything else in? Is what you have (and who you are) right now really what you want to have and be forever, anyway? I didn't think so. So, ladies - let's face the refining fire together, and be grateful for people who are willing to wield the flame. (And, let's not fool ourselves into thinking their job is a piece of cake, either.)

Want to be encouraged as you walk through this process? Check out these two really awesome blogs, which inspire me to keep my heart close to the refiners in my life, even when it hurts. The first is a dear friend of mine who got married just a few months ago, and who is honestly sharing her daily insights as a young wife. The other is a dear friend who got married years ago, and who clarifies the role of a wife so well as she shares her insights as a seasoned wife. I hope they'll encourage you, just as they have for me. Until next time - may we all embrace the process of building strong hearts.

Great Blogs You Should Follow:

The Neesby Lookbook - by Nicole Neesby

The Respect Dare - by Nina Roesner

Presenting My Findings

I was chatting with my husband on the phone today and he told me how sweet our youngest daughter has been to him this morning. Before he leaves for work each day he always goes in, kisses the girls, and tells them goodbye. Typically, he gets snores, snorts, drool, and grumbles in response (especially from me, I'm ashamed to admit). But, apparently this morning our four-year-old opened her deep, dark eyes for a moment, smiled the biggest smile you can imagine, and told him how much she loved him, and couldn't wait until he got home from work again. Then, she insisted on one more hug before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Fast forward about an hour. The same, sweet child had come into my room sometime in the interim, and snuggled down in bed next to me. I awoke to see her precious little face, and I wrapped my arms around her, marveling at what a miracle each and every new morning is. After a moment, she opened her deep, dark eyes, stared intently into mine, and said, "When are you making shrimpy noodles for me?" Hmmm... Somehow that didn't go like I thought it would. But, that's okay, because a mom is not a dad.

Dad is fun and spontaneous. Dad is the bringer of treats. The taker to new places. The fun driver. The adventure seeker. The excitement in an otherwise monotonous life. Dad has cool stuff that is off limits and infinitely  more appealing because of it. Even though he is a grownup, he still buys stuff just for the pleasure of having it - the quintessential definition of a toy. Plus, to my girls at least, Dad has gifts and talents that they can only dream of. Not only can he fix any broken item and always find the right battery or bulb, but his mysterious anatomy allows Dad to pee outside. Awesome.

Mom, on the other hand, is not so spontaneous. Mom is the maker of food. The everyday chauffeur. The monotony in an otherwise exciting life. Mom has ordinary stuff that is (at least, in the minds of the kids) common property and infinitely more expendable because of it. Mom never was a child, and only buys things that are useful, necessary, and on sale. Not only is Mom the essence of prudence, but her anatomy doesn't do any cool tricks except, apparently, for enabling her to find things.

Look, I watched 'the film' in fourth grade and paid avid attention to the wonder and magic of the female reproductive system. I understand fallopian tubes, and ovaries, and complicated hormones as well as the next gal. Yet, despite three pregnancies, two ultrasounds, and full-color photographs of the exploratory surgery to my lower abdomen (I'll have to explain later), I have yet to understand how a uterus helps women find things. But, it must be so. No one wanders around my house plaintively whining, "Daddy, can you help me find my..." And, I'm certainly not the one who constantly asks the other members of the household where things are. Nope. Quite the contrary - apparently I am the one who always knows where things are (or, at least, should).

Naturally, I have concluded that beyond just being able to create and grow a baby, a uterus must also be a tracking device. Someday a white-coated scientist will discover a little, blipping microchip-like structure embedded deep inside a womb, and the mystery will finally be solved. Mind you, for such a find as that, it will have to be a female scientist, of course.

Until then, I will be content to not be able to water the flowers anatomically. I will also be more than happy to be the finder of lost things, the ho-hum helper, and the maker of shrimpy noodles. Dad may get the morning and evening hugs, but I get all the rest while he has to be at work. The greeting he gets tides him over until he returns home again at the end of the day. The greeting I get is filled with the promise of hours and hours together. Dad's spontaneity and my monotony make a fine balance for our family, and one that serves us all very well. In fact, I think you'd be hard pressed to find a better combination. And I should know - apparently I'm equipped to find anything...

Happily Ever After

Once upon a time there was a girl who was scandalously young, and a boy who was terribly new to the adult world. They met at a birthday party, fell madly in love, went through a tumultuous serious of dating breakups and get-togethers, got married, and have been facing the challenges of the world side-by-side for the past sixteen years. Doesn't exactly sound like a typical fairytale romance, does it?

Today marks the sixteenth anniversary of when my husband and I first met. I was 15 3/4 years old. He was 18. At the time, we thought we had the world by the tail. Now, I cannot believe what absolute infants we were, a fact made all the more frightening since our oldest daughter is only four years away from being the same age I was way back then. Wow. According to statistics and every predictor imaginable, we should not have survived as a couple. There have been several times when even we didn't think we were going to make it. Yet, here we are. Still together. Still in love. How can such a non-fairytale beginning have led to a happy, successful marriage? I'll tell you how - fairytales are lies.

In the fairy tale, the hero rides in and saves the damsel in distress, sweeps her into his arms, and they ride off into the sunset.You'll notice, the author never follows them and shows what life is like five, ten or sixteen years later. There are a couple of very good reasons why. First off, damsels in distress (who are unable to rescue themselves, or put themselves in stupid situations to begin with) rarely make good wives. While it's true that wives will often find themselves facing daunting challenges, married life requires them to be able to slay many of their own dragons, fight many of their own daily battles, and still have supper on the table by 6:00. A helpless wife = a hungry hubby, which is not a pretty picture.

Secondly, husbands in real life are no less the hero to their fair ladies than the men in fairy tales are, though their respective defining qualities couldn't be more very different. Heroes in fairy tales expect to fight one epic battle, and be adored as the strong, silent type for the rest of their lives. In the real world, it is their dogged pursuit of the daily grind, and a willingness (no matter how difficult) to open up and communicate those messy little things called 'feelings' that makes a man appealing. A one-hit-wonder, wordless hubby = a wrathful wife. Also, not a pretty picture.

Don't get me wrong, I know couples who have had the fairytale romance. Their every 'first' was magical. Their every look was adoring. Their every role and duty, perfectly fulfilled. From the outside, their life was enviable and beautiful. However, very few of these couples have marriages and homes that are still intact. Turns out, riding off into the sunset as a storybook hero and damsel can really burn you in the end.

But, don't be discouraged. Fairytales are not the only books on the shelf, and there is hope when it comes to love. Just look at us! You see, I come from a long line of romantic rebels. They are the pirates and pioneers, discoverers and dreamers, ruffians and rogues of the soulmate story. One set of grandparents met on a blind date, where my grandmother rode 30 miles on the running board of a car - holding on for dear life - to have supper with the towering hunk she would marry a short time later. (A wedding that took place, by the way, just one day after her 18th birthday and graduation from high school.) They lived on the ragged edge of poverty - gambling their last quarter in a pool hall for a couple loaves of bread and some meat for the stew pot - before becoming the ordinary, solid, ho-hum progenitors I know them as today.

My other set of grandparents only dated for three months, and went to a burlesque show on their honeymoon. My mom and dad were high school sweethearts who married way too young and still hold hands when they take strolls together. Other notoriously-mismatched couples with inauspicious beginnings that are near and dear to my heart include a woman who broke off an engagement in order to pursue a man she had just met, a couple who corresponded for months and ended up getting married after having only seen each other once, and a fifteen year old who never believed in love at first sight until it happened to her. That last one, by the way, was me.

I can't say that I recommend the path that we have traveled. I know it's extremely unlikely for us to still be going strong. I don't advocate for very young couples, very short engagements, or correspondence courtships. Then again, I don't advocate against them, either -at least in some cases - since love can grow from very strange beginnings, and not even the time-honored fairytale romance has the formula exactly right.

For us, things have worked because we are stubborn against the troubles of the world, and yielding to each other. We are uncompromising in our commitment to our marriage, and spend a lot of time compromising on everything else. We are fierce fighters, and frequent forgivers. We pray together and play together. We say, "I love you" often, and "I'm sorry" even more so.  And, we try to enjoy every moment that we get in each others' company, just like we did sixteen years ago. Here's to my real hero husband and a life-long romance that is nothing like a fairytale.

Wedded Bliss

Today is my best friend's anniversary. She and her husband have been married for nine years. That's really saying something, especially since they were both  younger than average when they tied the knot - a factor that often predicts marital failure. Despite that, and other challenges they faced, they've crossed a pretty important threshold today. According to the census bureau, most first marriages that end in divorce do so before or during eighth year.Wow. Congratulations guys - you've beat the odds. I always knew you would.

I have been thinking a lot about marriage lately, not only because of their anniversary, but also because there are some weddings marked on my calendar this summer that I'm looking forward to attending. In just a few weeks I will watch a young couple who is madly in love with each other - positively aglow with excitement - exchange vows. Their exuberance is contagious, and I can't help but smile when I think about them. They are beautiful. They are filled with hope and possibility. They are ready to take on the world, and they have no idea what they're getting in to.

None of us do, really. I was only nineteen when I got married, and I have never - not even for a moment - regretted that decision. However, marriage is not always what I expected it to be. There is something more permanent and powerful about the forging of two lives and souls than anyone can anticipate. I sometimes think, 'gee, it would have been nice if someone would have sat me down before my wedding and told me what it's like to be a wife.' Of course, there's no way to express how wonderful and challenging it really is, is there? I'm now in the position to do exactly that for a young person just ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, but I'm not sure what to say.

Should I tell her that she will not be the same person several years from now that she is today? How do you tell someone that the individual they're madly in love with will not be the same one they celebrate their tenth anniversary with? Moreover, how do you convince someone that those changes are ok? That, with all the challenges you will face together, you're not going to want this man to be the one standing next to you in the delivery room, or the emergency room, or the hospice room of your dying parent? But the person he will turn into will be exactly who you need him to be? How do you tell someone that you will literally watch parts of your new spouse - aspects of him or her that you dearly love - disappear with each passing day, only to be replaced by new characteristics, traits, and habits? How do you tell a giddy young bride-to-be that the defining elements of who her fiancee really and fundamentally is, will be all that remain as the years pass, and those elements might not be the ones she thinks they are? 

Should I tell her that there will be times (moments, hours, even days) when it won't be fun to be around her husband? When she might not really like how he's acting, or think that she doesn't even really like him? And, worse than that, there will be times when it won't be fun for her husband to be around her. How do you tell someone that only fairytales end with the effortless 'happily ever after?' In the real world, relationships require constant attention, work, and compromise - especially those the are happy forever after. In fact, as near as I can tell, that is one of the defining elements of what makes a marriage successful: the commitment to the marriage itself (and all the effort that entails) as well as the commitment to the person you are married to.

Should I tell her she'll sacrifice more than she realized she could? Should I tell her that sometimes she'll carry burdens that are bigger than she deserves? Should I tell her that sometimes she will be a bigger burden to her husband than he deserves? Should I tell her of the immensity of emotion - both in the depth of pain and the height of joy - that she will endure? The worry she will feel? How much of a comfort she will be to him, and what comfort he will provide to her? The pride at being joined with such a wonderful human being? The feelings of being inadequate for the tasks required? The enormity of what it means to be everything her husband needs her to be, in every area of their shared lives, for now and each day to follow? Should I?

I think, instead, I will sum all of that up into two little sentences, and tell her every truth about this important endeavor that I know by simply stating (as others did for me on my wedding day), "Congratulations! God really knew what He was doing when He created the blessing of marriage." Yes, I think that is exactly what I will tell her, and I will sincerely mean every word of it.

Playing Grown Up

Well, here I am attempting a second time to write a post with more of myself included. I am no longer pontificating... have stepped down off the soap box. Is it more human and approachable this way? Perhaps I'll consider this a group therapy session. After all, you must be reading this blog for a reason. If it's to search to answers, I can only tell you, in all honesty, that I do not have them. But, perhaps we can discover some together. I'll go first.

Hi. My name is Andrea, and I feel under-equipped to deal with life. I suppose there are so very many more things I could admit to - over eating, over sleeping, over doing. But, I think I've come a long way by being able to really distill what's going on down to such a pithy and provocative statement. You see, I've always been the one able to handle it all. Keep all the balls in the air. Keep all the plates spinning. Now I've come to realize that those things are what the analogy implies : games - just part of an act. It looks good (and feels good) on stage, but when the makeup comes off and the costumes are put away at the end of the night, there are still children to raise, souls to save, bills to pay. Life is not the circus act.

My best friend and I (both of us turned 30 this year) were wondering together on the phone the other day why no one warned us of what it means to be a grown up. Why did no one tell us how serious and earnest this thing called life can be? Why did no one think to warn us that we would endure indescribable difficulties even as we enjoyed unparalleled joys? Why didn't anyone let us know that this is what it would be like? I've been trying to abdicate my adult responsibilities for years, but they keep coming back. All this time I've had the sneaking suspicion that this thing called life is perhaps a bit more serious and taxing than I wanted to let on.

For my friend, it all started with her first vacuum. You see - it wasn't her mother's vacuum. It wasn't borrowed. It wasn't temporary. It was hers. Forever. You don't buy a vacuum unless you need it. You don't need a vacuum unless you have a home. You don't have your own home unless you're a grown up. See the connection? To this day I think that vacuum causes her pause on good days, panic on bad ones. It's a sign that she - all of us, really - is inextricably engaged in the forward march of life, and that can be a sobering thought.

I, on the other hand, didn't have the sense to pause and consider the implications of my first vacuum. I was very young and idealistic when I plunged headlong into life. It wasn't until sometime after a college degree, two home purchases, a brand new car, three children, and a dying loved one later that I started to have the sneaking sort of panic that my friend's small appliances stirred up in her. Now I find myself very much entrenched in this thing called life, and feel ill equipped to handle it. Who am I to hold the hand of the dying? What do I know about helping those left behind in their grief? What words can I offer to bolster my brave husband, who faces the world with the weight of his family on his shoulders each day? Where will I go for the wisdom to bring forth these children that I feel so fiercely proud of and responsible for? How did I end up here?

Some days I think I'll wake to discover that it's all been a game of house. We (the good children, intently engaged in our play) will be called back to reality by our parents. We will put aside our drama and aprons and vacuums and go have a snack under the watchful eye of a capable and caring adult. Our vain striving over who is in charge, which person says what, where things will go, what we will do... it will all be forgotten. After all - if we are honest with ourselves in the deepest and darkest places in our hearts, we somehow sensed all along that it is foolishness to pretend we are really adults, don't we? Ahhh.... but what can be done about it? Therein lies the trouble.

And so, I will continue to be a little girl her mother's high heels. I will pray for wisdom in bringing forth and carefully preserving the treasures in my husband. I will shore him up on the days when I can see that he is a little boy in his father's tie and suit jacket. At least there is much comfort to be found in knowing that I am not playing this game alone. I will trust the promise God gave me that when I open my mouth, it is in wisdom, and the teaching of kindness will be on my tongue. When that promise is stretched thin and looks like it will run out, I will go to Him for a fresh slice of truth and a cold glass of grace. (Perhaps there is a kind parent who watches over this game of house after all...) I will guide and guard, praise and raise, teach and treasure my children each and every day. And, I will never, ever tell them what it's like to be a grownup - how earnest and serious life can be, and what indescribable difficulties and unparalleled joys you discover along the way -  because they deserve to discover it on their own.

Friendship Happens

I am amazed at the process of friendship. It happens when you least expect it, often when you don't even want it to, and most of the time it is completely beyond your control. I mean, there I was one day going about my own business, when I happened to meet a boy. He was nice. I liked him. We talked on the phone, went out to dinner a few times. Next thing you know, we've been married 10 years and have 3 small children living with us. (I'm told they're our children. But, of course, we're far too young to have kids of our own. I think they just popped in from the neighbors' house and liked our food so they stuck around.)

Anyway, somewhere between that Friday night in September almost 15 years ago and now I've gained a best friend -  my husband, and three amazing young ladies with whom I am privileged to spend most of my waking hours. Let's be honest here, I spend much of my sleeping hours with the younger two as well, as they still tend to migrate to our room at night. There you go again - a perfect example of friendship occurring in the strangest of ways. Who else would I allow to cry at me, poop at me, vomit at me, and kick me all night and still love as much I do these children? And, don't forget - they're also eating all my food. Friendship is a funny, funny thing.

But, of course, it doesn't stop there. Attached to my husband (at least figuratively, if not sometimes literally) are relatives. He's got parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, grandparents. These people slowly started encroaching on my circle of acquaintances from the very first day I met Mark - initially as only as faceless characters in the stories my future-husband told me over dinner.  Of course, that soon changed. With each passing holiday or social gathering they gained standing in my friendship lineup - moving up from batboy into cleanup position. Now, these people are among my heavy hitters - often my go to batters. How did that happen? I'll tell you how...

Since I wasn't exactly out husband shopping that night in September almost 15 years ago (I know I've said that already, but 15 years... seriously!?), I wasn't thinking of the long-term consequences of that boy calling me up the next day. I know we need to educate young people about the effects that their youthful indiscretions and energetic actions can have on the rest of their lives. But, I'd say I was far better informed about sex, drugs, and rock and roll as a teenager than I was about the cold, hard facts about acquaintances, friendship, and love. Oh, you think you'll be able to play around and stop whenever you want to, but before you know it you'll wake up a dozen years later with an in-law habit that won't quit, craving time with your husband's friends, and (as long as we're being frank, here) hanging out with a totally different crowd than you used to when you were young and innocent.

Often, they'll expose you to bad habits - like baseball and seafood. You'll start inviting them over more and more often, spend your money on vacations and gifts. At some point in the process you will have to look at yourself in the mirror and admit that you are addicted. Not only that - but you've gone and spread the addiction to your own friends and family as well. There will be times when you'll look around you and see your family, his family, and families you never even dreamed of knowing all hopped up on sugar and good times together, and you'll have to admit that you're the one who brought this about. You're the one who created this chain of people addicted to each other. You're the one - you and that night 15 years ago. How did it all spiral out of your control so quickly?

Next time you're surrounded by these family and friends, brought together only by your actions, I hope you're pleased with yourself and the situation you've created. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize that the term 'in-law' has become obsolete and unnecessary. I hope you're pleased with yourself at night when you can't sleep because you're worried about people you didn't even know when you were a kid. I hope you're pleased with yourself when no one can remember who was on the groom's side or the bride's side at the wedding, since they're all piled in together at one table during the holidays now. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize the imperceptible process of friendship that has taken place in your life. I hope you're pleased with yourself and the people you're surrounded by. I do sincerely hope so, because I know I am....

Sirius Arguments

My marriage has dodged a major bullet. See, our trial subscription to Sirius Satellite Radio just expired, and I couldn't be more pleased. Don't get me wrong - I totally loved having hundreds of stations, knowing that my every musical whim could be satisfied at the touch of a button, being able to rock out to music that youngsters have been rocking out to for the past eighty years or so. But, all the shoobie doos and sha la las, all the twanging and head banging, and even all the cheesy love songs in the world is just not worth my marriage.

You see, my husband and I are sort of a classic case of opposites that attracted. I am the positive to his negative, the yin to his yang, the Yoko to his John Lennon. So far our marriage has survived his love of baseball (and my apathy to it), my political drive and involvement (and his apathy to that), and even the struggles in our earliest years between a dog person and a cat person. (I'm gald to say he's now a fervent convert, and we have four indoor cats.) Having worked those things out, I really thought our marriage could survive anything. Then, along came a free three-month trial to Sirius Satellite Radio that came with my new car. It almost broke us.

Mark is an 80's guy. He loves the funky rhythms, the hair bands, the insistent guitar riffs, and even the fashions associated. I, on the other hand, am a honkey tonk and bluegrass girl. He may have played blocks to the sounds of Madonna and Duran Duran, but I drifted off to sleep to Ronnie Milsap and Crystal Gayle. When Merle Haggard sang I'm Proud to Be an Okie From Muskogee he was literally singing my song. That's me - born in Muskogee General Hospital in Muskogee, Oklahoma. It's more than a birthplace - it's a heritage.
Little did I know that even though Opposites Attract (Paula Abdul, 1989), our musical differences were threatening to cause a D-I-V-O-R-C-E (Tammy Wynette, 1968).

Car trips, of course, were the hardest. We have a rule that whoever drives gets to pick the station. These past few months we've been arguing over who gets to drive rather than who has to. Even quick stops at a gas station were opportunities for the listener/passenger to pull a quick switcheroo. Upon arriving back to the car from the pump or restroom, someone was bound to be motioned from the driver's side to the passenger's side and a conversation something like this would ensue:

Delighted New Driver: Gee, honey, I thought you looked tired and might like it if I took a turn at the wheel... for your sake, of course. [big grin]
Disgruntled New Passenger: [indistinct grumbles] Alright, but I'm warning you - one of the girls is probably going to need to stop in about 30  miles for a potty break, you know!

Our record was fourteen stops in 100 miles. Our children were confused, but happy, since each game of  'musical drivers' generally resulted in the purchase of some type of snack or beverage. I gained 3 pounds, but got to listen to all the fiddles, banjos, and steel guitars that I could ever want. Mark, likewise, drank four Dr. Peppers and rocked out to no less than seven Cyndi Lauper songs, and a late Eagles hit that even I enjoyed. Thankfully, however, those days have come to an end. The subscription price to continue getting satelite radio coverage may only be $12.95 a month, but I hear that divorce lawyers are pretty pricey. Even if it never came to that, I don't think we can continue to afford the snacks. There's only one thing left to do - go back to disagreeing on talk radio. At least it's free!

Rondo Meets Bambi

Last night my husband hit a deer. That's life in the fast lane in Iowa. It was bound to happen eventually, of course, but I didn't particularly care for the timing of it all. Not only was I in the hospital staying with a friend for the night, but Mark had all three girls with him, and he was driving my BRAND NEW CAR (a 2009 Denim Blue Kia Rondo) - the first brand new vehicle I've ever owned. Needless to say, the convergence of circumstance could have been better, but no one was hurt, which is all that really matters in the end. Well, that's not exactly true. I know for a fact that the deer was scared poopless, since the evidence of it was all over the driver's side door, but I'm guessing that she sustained other injuries as well. I'm still waiting for a call from her insurance company since she fled the scene

Or, perhaps she didn't flee the scene... Here's where the personality difference comes in. After ascertaining that everyone was fine, my first thought was to ask my husband to track down the deer. I can't help it. I am a scavenger by nature, and though I've never actually brought road kill home for supper, that's only because I couldn't verify that it was fresh enough. Mark, on the other hand, doesn't even care for the fact that he has to see the animals that he eats while still on the hoof (so to speak). He prefers his meat to come pre-cooked and wrapped in cellophane or a burger box. Thankfully, we've been married long enough that I've learned when to think out loud, and when to keep my mouth shut. The mental image of him on the side of the road, staring at our damaged car, checking the girls over, and clutching his cell phone to his ear, waiting for reassurance from his loving wife, helped me do the right thing. No amount of deer burger is worth my husband's sanity.

Had it been me, though, I know things would have gone differently. I would have waded through the ditch, field dressed the deer with my fingernail file kit, drug the carcass onto the roof rack (isn't that what they make roof racks for, after all?), and had the girls help me cut it, wrap it, and get it into the freezer before putting them to bed. After all - if psychiatrists say you can overcome your fears by facing the thing you've got a problem with, then butchering Bambi seems like the ideal way to get over the emotional trauma of having hit a deer, doesn't it? Sounds right to me.

In the end, I can see that I chose correctly when I kept my hunter-gatherer instincts to myself. I really don't have time to process a deer right now, and don't need to be jumping in over my head on yet another project with a pressing deadline. A few deer roast would have been nice, but a hassle-free weekend with my family sounds even better. Since my girls didn't get the chance to have some 'do-it-yourself' therapy, perhaps it's best if we don't have any reminders of the incident hanging around. Besides, I drove by this morning and checked the ditch. Bambi was gone, and so my roadkill record remains clean (for now).