This Thursday is my husband's and my 15th wedding anniversary. Many years ago before we were even married, I had a journal that I used to write in all the time. It was part diary, and had a lot of poems in it too. Occasionally, I would read the poems out loud to my husband (then boyfriend). So, he figured that because I shared some of the content in my journal, that he was free to peruse the rest of it. Not only did he read the private parts of my journal without permission, but then he got mad about some of the things I had written in it about relationships I'd had before I even met him. So, as a result of that huge fight, I stopped writing poetry.
Now, 15+ years later, I decided start writing poetry again. This poem, to my husband, is about how love changes over time.
When we first met
I dove into you
Head over heels
Shocked and delighted
Immersed in your eyes
That was long ago
I tasted a bite of madness
So madly in love was I
With your smile and the richness
Of your laugh
Many years ago
Now the madness has receded and
Sanity has returned
I no longer vainly try to quiet butterflies
At the thought of seeing you
Now I go deeper
Every part of me resonates with your soul’s music
Our love has left the sunny meadows and hills
It’s battled dark things
And glimpsed the Light
Words fall defeated when confronted with
Describing the fruits that have budded and ripened in our orchard
Each one more wondrous than a magical journey
Half remembered from a dream
And there’s more and more of you to know
Because love is ever expansive
Limitless
It’s about Now swaddled in Forever
And I still lose myself in the curve of your face
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Public Opinion
When I go places with all my kids, I encounter all sorts of reactions. The most comment thing I hear from strangers is, “Are they all yours?” When I say that they are, I usually get some sort of blessing. I’m not knocking it; I will take all the blessings I can get. Sometimes I get other, more annoying reactions, though.
One time, we were on vacation and we went out to a restaurant. A man approached us and after giving our family a meaningful look asked us, “Don’t you have cable TV?” I am sure that he meant it as funny, but frankly, I had never considered television to be a form of birth control. That is kind of a scary concept to me, and anyway, not very reliable. We do have satellite TV, after all and (thank goodness) I consider my husband to be much more interesting than any program.
Some people look at us as if we are either really bad planners or freaks. I have actually had people ask if all of our children were planned. Yes, they were planned; none of my children is a result of a blonde moment. I am very clear on how the whole birds and the bees thing works and available ways of preventing conception, thank you very much. And no, none of my kids are twins; we didn’t get tricked by nature into having so many children. Likewise, we did not have so many kids because of religious restrictions or edicts.
The worst comment I ever heard was when I was pregnant with my youngest, Rebecca. I went to the OB/gyn for my first prenatal checkup and when I went to check out with the receptionist, she asked me if this was my first child. “No,” I told her with a smile, “it is my fifth.” The woman looked at me and replied, “I would kill myself.” With great effort, I restrained myself from giving her a piece of my mind. Suffice it to say that this person should not work at an OB’s office and is in desperate need of a filter between brain and mouth.
In the US, the average family size in 2009 is 2.05 children per woman, or basically zero population growth. However, in other times, the norm was 4, 5, and up to 8 children per family. In my family, my grandfather (born around 1910) was one of eight children, all sons. So the whole concept that having five kids is somehow undoable or bizarre is misguided.
They say that God gives you what you have the capacity handle, and I think that is true. When people marvel that I am so calm even with five kids, I reply that people who are high strung don't have five kids in the first place. I do know that I am thankful for each one of the very special people that I have been entrusted with. I am also grateful that in addition to my husband and me, they will always have each other. As an only child myself, that is important to me (and my husband, one of two children).
So the next time you see mom or dad with the courage to handle the hassles and logistics of taking a large family out in public, reserve the judgment and stick with the blessings. Specifically, you can bless us with abundant patience, peace and wealth because that is what we need.
One time, we were on vacation and we went out to a restaurant. A man approached us and after giving our family a meaningful look asked us, “Don’t you have cable TV?” I am sure that he meant it as funny, but frankly, I had never considered television to be a form of birth control. That is kind of a scary concept to me, and anyway, not very reliable. We do have satellite TV, after all and (thank goodness) I consider my husband to be much more interesting than any program.
Some people look at us as if we are either really bad planners or freaks. I have actually had people ask if all of our children were planned. Yes, they were planned; none of my children is a result of a blonde moment. I am very clear on how the whole birds and the bees thing works and available ways of preventing conception, thank you very much. And no, none of my kids are twins; we didn’t get tricked by nature into having so many children. Likewise, we did not have so many kids because of religious restrictions or edicts.
The worst comment I ever heard was when I was pregnant with my youngest, Rebecca. I went to the OB/gyn for my first prenatal checkup and when I went to check out with the receptionist, she asked me if this was my first child. “No,” I told her with a smile, “it is my fifth.” The woman looked at me and replied, “I would kill myself.” With great effort, I restrained myself from giving her a piece of my mind. Suffice it to say that this person should not work at an OB’s office and is in desperate need of a filter between brain and mouth.
In the US, the average family size in 2009 is 2.05 children per woman, or basically zero population growth. However, in other times, the norm was 4, 5, and up to 8 children per family. In my family, my grandfather (born around 1910) was one of eight children, all sons. So the whole concept that having five kids is somehow undoable or bizarre is misguided.
They say that God gives you what you have the capacity handle, and I think that is true. When people marvel that I am so calm even with five kids, I reply that people who are high strung don't have five kids in the first place. I do know that I am thankful for each one of the very special people that I have been entrusted with. I am also grateful that in addition to my husband and me, they will always have each other. As an only child myself, that is important to me (and my husband, one of two children).
So the next time you see mom or dad with the courage to handle the hassles and logistics of taking a large family out in public, reserve the judgment and stick with the blessings. Specifically, you can bless us with abundant patience, peace and wealth because that is what we need.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Apron Strings
When my husband, Tony was a child, his mother was an obsessive cleaner. His house was always immaculate and hyper-organized. When he woke up in the morning, everything was sparkling clean and the table was set for breakfast. In short, everything was clean and neat and ordered for him with no effort required on his part.
To this day, when my mother-in-law comes to my house, the first thing she does is start cleaning. She’ll clean my kitchen, hand-washing each dish in scalding hot water. Then she sweeps and picks up. If I have laundry to fold, she starts to fold it. When we first got married and she visited, I would get insulted. Did she think I wasn’t a good housekeeper? Was she disgusted with the mess and dirt she saw? Did she think I wasn’t good enough for her son? Over time, I have come to accept it. This is just the way she is. Cleaning my house is actually her way of sharing, so now, I just relax and let her do it.
When we got married, Tony expected that I would act the same as his mom. “Maybe,” he might have reasoned to himself, “the reason she has never been a super cleaner before is that she wasn’t married yet. Now that we’re married, she will change.” In addition to tidying and scrubbing, he also expected me to make his doctor appointments for him, cook and serve him food even if he didn’t ask or said he wasn’t hungry, bake multiple pies and dozens of cookies to serve to friends or give as gifts at Christmas and send out Christmas cards to everyone he ever came in contact with, just like his mom used to do. Let me point out at this point that I am Jewish. I never did anything around Christmas time except light the menorah and eat potato latkes.
But forgetting for a moment the cultural and religious issues, the idea that I should be more like my mother-in-law has been the cause of lots of fights over the last 14 years of our marriage. Don’t get me wrong – we have a good marriage and we don’t fight that often. But when we do get into it, the problem usually centers on a variant of the same thing, which is “I’m not, nor will I ever be your mother.” The arguments have gotten less the longer we’ve been married. I have gotten better at cleaning, and he has gotten better at not complaining. Every once in a while, though, that little boy still comes out and reaches for his mother’s apron strings and finds that mama has left the building.
To this day, when my mother-in-law comes to my house, the first thing she does is start cleaning. She’ll clean my kitchen, hand-washing each dish in scalding hot water. Then she sweeps and picks up. If I have laundry to fold, she starts to fold it. When we first got married and she visited, I would get insulted. Did she think I wasn’t a good housekeeper? Was she disgusted with the mess and dirt she saw? Did she think I wasn’t good enough for her son? Over time, I have come to accept it. This is just the way she is. Cleaning my house is actually her way of sharing, so now, I just relax and let her do it.
When we got married, Tony expected that I would act the same as his mom. “Maybe,” he might have reasoned to himself, “the reason she has never been a super cleaner before is that she wasn’t married yet. Now that we’re married, she will change.” In addition to tidying and scrubbing, he also expected me to make his doctor appointments for him, cook and serve him food even if he didn’t ask or said he wasn’t hungry, bake multiple pies and dozens of cookies to serve to friends or give as gifts at Christmas and send out Christmas cards to everyone he ever came in contact with, just like his mom used to do. Let me point out at this point that I am Jewish. I never did anything around Christmas time except light the menorah and eat potato latkes.
But forgetting for a moment the cultural and religious issues, the idea that I should be more like my mother-in-law has been the cause of lots of fights over the last 14 years of our marriage. Don’t get me wrong – we have a good marriage and we don’t fight that often. But when we do get into it, the problem usually centers on a variant of the same thing, which is “I’m not, nor will I ever be your mother.” The arguments have gotten less the longer we’ve been married. I have gotten better at cleaning, and he has gotten better at not complaining. Every once in a while, though, that little boy still comes out and reaches for his mother’s apron strings and finds that mama has left the building.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Hotel Mentality
My husband, Tony travels. A lot. In a typical month, he spends about 2 and a half weeks out of town, much of which spans over weekends since he travels internationally and coming home for weekends just isn’t an option. All this traveling means that he spends a lot of time in hotels. When he is not traveling, he works from home since his company’s office is in Maryland and we live in Florida (which also means he needs to fly up there whenever he needs to meet face to face with anyone in the company).
Despite the fact that he misses me and the kids and calls often, there is one ray of sunshine in the traveling life for him. It’s the hotels. Hotels are always clean, with daily maid service. No one else’s stuff has been left around, so he can arrange his stuff as he likes. There are no little curious hands to snatch his IPhone and leave it on the floor near the bed or to spray his shaving cream on the bathroom mirror. There is no refrigerator that can be left open or cartons of orange juice that are spilled on the ground and left to dry to a tacky mess. There are no little scientists trying to grow penicillin in dishes of neglected food smuggled into their rooms. There is also a certain silence, one without earsplitting screams of “So and so hurt me!” or a sullen, “Why do I have to do it?”
Here’s the problem. Tony comes home from his travels and brings the hotel mentality with him. He starts out eager to see us and hugs and kisses everyone. Once the excitement wears off, he looks around and oftentimes, that is when the hotel mentality kicks in. Total bewilderment at the backpacks carelessly tossed by the front door. Consternation at the sloppily done chores. Disbelief at the baskets of clean laundry waiting to be folded and put away. Shock at the decibel level of kids playing or fighting. “Where is my ordered, quiet world, where some invisible angel turns down my sheet and leaves a small chocolate?” he must wonder.
After a long trip, it takes him about two or three days to adjust to the real reality. Life is messy. Kids are loud. We don’t have a full time maid (or any maid, for that matter). And it’s all OK.
"Now, for heaven's sake," I tell him, "take some vacation time and take me to a hotel!"
Despite the fact that he misses me and the kids and calls often, there is one ray of sunshine in the traveling life for him. It’s the hotels. Hotels are always clean, with daily maid service. No one else’s stuff has been left around, so he can arrange his stuff as he likes. There are no little curious hands to snatch his IPhone and leave it on the floor near the bed or to spray his shaving cream on the bathroom mirror. There is no refrigerator that can be left open or cartons of orange juice that are spilled on the ground and left to dry to a tacky mess. There are no little scientists trying to grow penicillin in dishes of neglected food smuggled into their rooms. There is also a certain silence, one without earsplitting screams of “So and so hurt me!” or a sullen, “Why do I have to do it?”
Here’s the problem. Tony comes home from his travels and brings the hotel mentality with him. He starts out eager to see us and hugs and kisses everyone. Once the excitement wears off, he looks around and oftentimes, that is when the hotel mentality kicks in. Total bewilderment at the backpacks carelessly tossed by the front door. Consternation at the sloppily done chores. Disbelief at the baskets of clean laundry waiting to be folded and put away. Shock at the decibel level of kids playing or fighting. “Where is my ordered, quiet world, where some invisible angel turns down my sheet and leaves a small chocolate?” he must wonder.
After a long trip, it takes him about two or three days to adjust to the real reality. Life is messy. Kids are loud. We don’t have a full time maid (or any maid, for that matter). And it’s all OK.
"Now, for heaven's sake," I tell him, "take some vacation time and take me to a hotel!"
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