'Til Death Do Us Part?

A recent conversation with friends proposed this topic: If your spouse died, would you remarry? 

Without hesitation, Craig and I both agreed that we would remarry as we would miss the companionship of marriage.  He easily admitted that he would want me to be happy, and I wished the same for him.  I did forewarn him, though, that I would haunt him if he picked a woman that didn’t place great value in the feelings of our children.  Because if they were to lose me, I wanted to be replaced by a woman who would love them, set a good example for them and have their best interests at heart.  He agreed that was a justifiable threat.

I was surprised, though, by the response of the other two couples in the room that did not yet have children.  One woman was sure her husband would remarry for companionship, but vowed she would live the rest of her life alone in solitude.  He was the only man she’d ever loved, and was quite certain that her broken heart wouldn’t allow her to love in a different direction.  She was so adamant that her husband would remarry that he opted out of the conversation despite her nervous probing.  My assumption is that he cared too much about her feelings to risk hurting them by considering the possibility of the very truth she feared.

The third couple did not answer the question in regards to themselves, but instead focused on the certainty that they would not want their spouse to remarry.  The man from the second couple asked, “If you were dead, what would it matter?”  Neither one could offer a reasonable answer, and remained un-shamed by their shared possessiveness.

I couldn’t help but wonder what this conversation said about Craig and I as a couple.  Were we able to wish for each other’s happiness because our children have taught us to love outside of ourselves?  Should we care that the only limitations we place on each other are based on the collective well-being of our kids?  Is our commitment to each other less than the commitment of the second couple, who will not be parted even by death?

There are no definitive answers to these questions, and they probably don't even apply because every relationship is different.  Whatever the case, I’m encouraged that Craig and I agree that life should be full of love after an unwanted death.  And I’m hopeful for the other couples, too, that they share in their own philosophies of 'til death do us part.  Because for a marriage to live long enough to find out what would really happen after one spouse dies, I think being on the same page in matters of the heart is fundamental.

Body Language

     The familiar concave line on the side of my thigh is missing.  The toned rise of my perky hamstring has fallen depressed.  It isn't often that I reach this point, because regular exercise is a norm in my life.  But my legs tell me I've been on vacation too long.  So this morning it's back to the gym I go.
     We all have different triggers that motivate us.  I used to let my stomach do the talking, but that changed for two reasons named Sydney and Taylor.  Because of them my belly is no longer a problem area, but just a problem.  So instead of counting on my twin-squishy mid-section to speak to me, I now listen to my legs.
     I'm curious: What body part do you entrust to tell you the harsh truth that you need to get back into the gym?  And when it speaks, do you listen?
     I look forward to the conversation after I've resumed my mission to rock my skinny jeans.

   
   
   

Relevant Reminder

The house is clean.  The kids are in school.  The dogs are sleeping.  It is so quiet that I can hear the hum of the refrigerator.  I actually have time to sit and write.  I'm sure that if I thought, even for a second, that I could come up with something that needs to be done.  But instead I am opting for "me" time.  Why is it that when you become a mother, you can't do this without feeling guilty?  Is it a good thing or a bad thing?  I can't quite decide.

I love it that I no longer crave a mid-day nap. Yet, that used to be my favorite indulgence.  I appreciate that my house tends to be tidy.  Yet, I used to take pride in the fact that I could let myself relax even if it wasn't.  Now I can only unwind when everything is put away and order is restored.  We used to eat out, pick up or order in all the time. Now that seems like chaos and, instead, cooking and cleaning up after seems easier.

I used to wish the evenings away so that we could put the kids to bed.  Now, I glance at the clock and wonder where the night went?  I used to pray that one day our girls would learn how to talk.  Now I find myself wondering if they're ever going to stop.  I used to want to keep every piece of artwork that the kids ever made.  Now, I carefully select the masterpieces and sneak the rest into the trash.

     I used to think I looked my best in a pair of high-heels.  Now, I'm happiest in flats.  I used to eat an entire bag of chips, and feel as though I deserved them.  Now I eat only a few at a time, and then suffer from lingering guilt.  I used to kill every plant that ever got near me.  Now, I have a green enough thumb that even my step-dad trusts me to babysit his plants.

     I used to smother Tucker with affection and feel frustrated that he wasn't a lap-dog.  Now he is ignored most of the time and won't leave my side.  I used to complain that Craig didn't talk enough.  Now I am impatient with his rambling and tell him to get to the point.  I used to take pleasure in mindless television shows, because I could turn off my brain while I watched them.  And now I prefer a quiet room and my computer, because I like to hear myself think.

     When I grew up, I couldn't wait to leave my small town.  Now I often find myself longing for the simplicity of little old Edon.  I used to avoid eating fish at all costs because I hated it. Now, I am training myself to tolerate it because I know it's good for me.  I used to be the loudest one at the party.  Now I prefer to sit back and let someone else wear that hat.  I used to want to stand out.  Now I like to blend in.

     I used to like to argue, because I knew I could win.  But now I often bite my tounge, because I see no point in the battle.

     It's funny, isn't it? How we change? How we grow? I had no idea where I was going with this blog when I started writing it. But now I get it.

     Just yesterday, I said to Craig: "You have lived with me for 12+ years. How can you not know this about me?" 

I can't remember why I said it. It could have been for a number of reasons. Maybe he put his bowl on the top rack of the dishwasher, instead of the bottom rack like I prefer. Maybe he didn't give Tucker and Bella fresh water when he fed them, like I prefer. Maybe he was joyfully singing at the top of his lungs in the morning, instead of being quiet and near-grumpy, like I prefer. Maybe he left only one pillow on the bed for me, instead of leaving me two, like I prefer.

     Whatever the case, I am constantly evolving and changing. So, maybe I need to be more patient with him for "not knowing me" when it's pretty obvious that I'm still figuring myself out, too.

It's Not About You

     Parenting identical twin daughters is a constant education.  One of the most important lessons I've learned thus far is that what you don't say is just as powerful as what you do say.

     Because of this, I've become very aware of how I praise my daughters.  A simple "I love you, Sydney" might cause Taylor to burst into tears.  Because she only hears, "I don't love you, Taylor."  That's not at all what I meant, and not even close to true.  But, it's the truth that Taylor infers.

     Both girls are equally affected this way with compliments, as well.  For example, it would be risky to tell Taylor she has a beautiful smile.

     "Hey!" Sydney would react, stung by my kindness to Taylor.  "What about my smile, Momma?"

     "I love your smile, Sydney," I used make the effort to reassure her, always shocked by the fact that they forget they have the exact same smiles.

     "Then why did you only say it to Taylor?" she would continue to challenge.

     I used to take the time to coddle them through their negative inferences.  I used to worry that I would damage their self-esteem if I didn't praise them equally.  I used to fall victim to their ploys for attention.

     But then I realized that by placating the twin that was fishing for a second-hand compliment, I was negating the special intent of the original compliment paid to the first twin.  So I have adopted a different approach:

     "Sydney, when I told Taylor I liked her smile, was I talking to you or Taylor?" I now ask.

     "Taylor," she admits, most often with shame because she’s been busted for attempting to steal the spot-light from her sister.

     "That's right, I was talking to Taylor.  So, was I thinking about Taylor's smile or your smile?"

     "Taylor's," she says.

     "That's right.  When I give Taylor a compliment, it's not about you, Sydney.  It's about Taylor.  And you need to learn to be happy for sissy when someone says something nice to her, instead of being sad for yourself."

     It's a tough love approach, that's for sure.  But my daughters will be compared to each other their entire lives, and I don't want one to automatically feel bad every time her sister feels good.  And when they merge in and out of social groups, hopefully this will teach them to be comfortable sharing the spotlight with their friends as well.  Because at the end of the day, it's not all about Sydney or Taylor.  And if they can understand and appreciate this lesson, then all of their relationships will benefit.  Because not only will they learn to decipher a compliment from an insult, but they'll also be aware that there are consequences for what they do say and consequences for what they don't say.

What's Your Button?

     I woke up this morning wishing for a pause button.  I looked forward to today, but wasn't quite ready to start it.  I just wanted a few minutes, so I could wake up at my own pace before the early morning rush resumed.
    On my way home from dropping off the kids, I reminisced about other times in my life when I wished for different buttons:
     When my parents first got divorced, I wished for rewind during the holidays.  It was a pain for my brother and I to dissect our visits home from college, only to be reminded in both places that something was missing.
     When Craig was being treated for cancer while I was pregnant with the the twins, I wished for fast forward on a daily basis.  We both felt like crap and were anxious to learn what the future would bring.
     When the twins were little, there were days when fast forward didn't cut it.  Instead I wished for eject, because they were so naughty that it didn't seem like a battle I'd ever win.
     Then, mixed into all that I mentioned above, there were spontaneous moments that I never wanted to forget.  For those precious moments that reassured me life was worth the struggle, a record button would have been nice.
     But right now, I'm at pause.  And I'm thinking that's a pretty good place to be.  Because who knows what tomorrow will bring?

The Flip-Side

  I grew up a gymnast.  Not to be confused with, "When I grew up, I did gymnastics."  Because that might falsely lead someone to believe that there was more to my identity than flipping and sticking.
     Yes, I dabbled with other sports.  And I was actually quite good.  I was the lead-off hitter for my summer softball team, and even executed a triple play in the field on one occasion.  I was also the starting setter for my high school volleyball team that was one game away from State Championships my senior year.
     But all that was peripheral.  Even though I loved it, I couldn't play softball for my high school because it conflicted with competitive gymnastics season.  And volleyball only worked because it was an off-season sport, and I was willing to play it in addition to gymnastics.  By the end of each volleyball season, my back was a mess from overuse.  So much so that I squatted at the knees to pick up the ball before I served, because it was too painful to bend over.
     Friends didn't invite me to their homes after school during the week, because they knew I'd be at the gym.  While everyone else slept in, I woke to an alarm at weekend sleepovers to make it to practice on time.  The only acceptable excuse for missing practice was if I was puking.  Because broken bones could be taped up.
     There was no quitting.  Believe me, I tried when I was 13.  I wanted to be done.  I was over it.  My mom wouldn't take no for an answer.  My coach wouldn't take no for an answer.  My community wouldn't take no for an answer.  Why?  Because I was a gymnast.
     I trained on a beam that was four inches wide, yet there was no balance in my life.  This irony made me angry after my body finally broke down to end my career in college.  I dwelled on what I missed because of the sport.  I was resentful of all that time wasted in the gym.  I felt as though I had nothing to show for it.
     Eventually, though, I realized I was wrong.  I traded in my bitterness for gratitude because I was able to see the flip-side (no pun intended.)  As a result of my unbalanced past, I now make balance a priority in our home.
     We say no to invitations when we're in need of quiet family time.  We keep our schedule flexible so that we have time for spontaneous fun.  We expect the kids to live up to their academic potential, but don't insist on perfection.  To honor their hard work, we allow them free time that is just that: free.  The kids help determine their sporting schedules, and I factor in ease and convenience when deciding on locations.  When a previous coach of Gabe’s “motivated” his players by screaming negative insults, we yanked him from the team.  Because it doesn't have to be all or nothing, and I wanted my son to learn early that it is healthy to walk away from behavior like that.
     We often refer to ourselves as Team Myers.  Because we all live together, and we all matter.  There has to be give and take, compromise and sacrifice.  Gabe is currently troubled because he has to start choosing between all the sports that he loves.  Because it's not fair to the rest of us when his overabundant athletic schedule dictates our lives.  Sydney and Taylor opted out of soccer this year, which burst their daddy's bubble as he was all set to coach them.  They tried volleyball instead and fell in love.  Now when the weather is nice, we all go outside and play family volleyball.  The kids are thrilled with their father's over exaggerated lack of skills, giggling together and coaching him the whole time.  Craig admits that he's enjoying this time with the girls even more than if they'd played soccer.
     As for me?  I grew up a gymnast terrified to fall off the beam.  As a result, I parent with balance and flexibility.  And I've got a happy family to show for it.    

Different is Good.

     It's Sunday morning.  I'm trying to relax.  But I'm not succeeding.  Craig is out of town hunting, and I've been on full time parenting duty since Thursday.  The kids and I have had a great time so far.  But already I can tell today is going to be different.
     Gabe just made himself some hot chocolate, but forgot to put his cup under the Keurig dispenser.  As my pre-coffee grumpiness was threatening to flare, I noticed there were two cups amongst the mess on the counter.  When I asked him why, he told me he was going to surprise me with a cup of coffee.  Of course he was.  His dad is out of town.  His dad usually delivers my weekend coffee to me.  He was trying to take care of me like Daddy does.  My temper was tamed.
     Until I opened the door to let Tucker out and was nearly deafened by the sound of our house alarm.  I had gotten out of bed to set it the night before as I always do when I remember Craig isn't home to protect us.  But Craig is the person who turns the alarm off in the morning.  It's one of those little jobs he does that I rarely even notice, but appreciate greatly.  So for the second morning in three days, I was on the phone with the alarm company apologizing for my absent-mindedness.
   And now the kids are blaring our favorite band over the house speaker.  Ordinarily, this would delight me.  Their loud, out of tune voices and desecration of the lyrics would usually make me chuckle, not cringe.  But I'm tired and crabby, and it's all my fault.
     When Craig is away, I stay up too late watching movies that I select with the intention of crying.  I'm not sad or depressed, but my favorite kind of movies are the ones that move me deeply.  It's not that Craig won't watch these same movies with me, because he will.  And often times, he's cries earlier and harder than myself.  But he doesn't agree that it feels good.  So when he's away, I take pleasure in my tears because I know no one is going to complain after they've been shed.  
     As I watch my movies, I drink too much wine.  Because without it, I have a hard time falling asleep when my husband isn't lying beside me.  But then I kick myself in the morning when my early birds arise, and I'm the only one home to take care of them.  A cloudy wine headache is not conducive to parenting three perky and energetic young children, that's for sure.
     So today is going to be different.  When I'm tempted to blame my kids, I will remember this blog and blame myself.  And when Craig walks through the door, I'm going to be really happy to see him.