To say that I’m glad my husband is home would be a gross understatement.
I love just looking at him. I’ve dreamed so often of his being here that his physical presence seems like a manifestation of a hundred thousand thoughts.
It’s groovy, man.
I love running my hands over the impossibly soft bristle of his high and tight. (A high and tight, for you non-military types and/or perverts out there, is a military haircut that is shaved on the sides but slightly longer on top. Get your minds out of the gutter. Geez.)
I love holding his hand and feeling the warmth radiate into my own palm.
I love making fun of his almost complete ineptitude in the kitchen. Like when he grates an entire block of cheese into the metal hollow of the grater where it packs in so tight that when he lifts up, the cheese stays wedged in there. In a solid lump. And we have to dig it out and practically re-grate it to separate it. It amuses me that a man who is responsible for the lives of many men and millions of dollars worth of equipment has trouble with the simplest tasks.
Well, they say that Einstein couldn’t make change. I wonder if he could grate cheese?
But, I love that my husband is willing to work in the kitchen with me and expand his culinary skills. (He could hardly do otherwise.)
I love being silly together. Laughter is such a cleansing thing.
I love that Jackie will sit on my lap now because I’m not jumping up every five seconds to turn on the light, get a glass of water, walk the dog, answer the phone or turn up the heat. I love being able to say, “Would you shut that light off on your way by, please?” Heavenly!
I love the smell of his soap in the shower.
I love being able to have an intelligent conversation with someone who can talk back to me. Owen is pretty smart, but he’s not as opinionated as my husband is. Of course, getting T to talk is another story for another post. Often it’s a matter of asking the right questions. Sometimes it’s a matter of catching him at the right time. And, once in a while, it’s a matter of me shutting my mouth long enough for him to get a word in edgewise. When I’m around him, I talk. A lot.
And I love that he accepts that – as he does almost everything about me. Maybe even everything. I can’t think of one thing off the top of my head that he doesn’t just roll with.
His presence is what, with varying degrees of patience, I have waited over a year for. I’ve longed for this; dreamed of it, wished for it and fantasized about it.
To say that – especially in those first couple of weeks – he annoyed the ever-living daylights out of me would also be a gross understatement.
I am irritated when he leaves his snowy boots on the kitchen floor where they leak puddles of frigid water that I promptly step in with my stocking feet.
It makes me want to shake him when he leaves his dishes in a cockeyed pile in the sink instead of putting them in the dishwasher.
I have a hard time backing off when he is interacting with Owen. I spent a year training that dog, so naturally I don’t think anyone can handle him quite as well as I can. I’m constantly telling T: “Have him sit before he goes out.” “No! The command is ‘watch me’ not ‘look at me’!” “Don’t let him pull you.” “Tell him to heel.” (Yes, I have issues. And yes, I am almost limp with relief that we don’t have children. How would I ever let him start to parent them??)
I forgot that his philosophy, in direct contrast with mine, is, “Play first, then work.” I, on the other hand, can’t relax in front of the TV when the cat box needs to be scooped, the trash needs to be emptied and the laundry is overflowing faster than Strega Nona’s pasta pot. Can you say “conflict”? I know I can.
In short, it drives me nutty to have to give up some of the control that I’ve maintained in the past year. I want things done my way. Because, of course, my way is the right way. (Duh.) It’s also the way that I’ve been doing things for the last year. Not to mention the ten years I lived on my own before T and I got married.
Here’s what it looks like in mathematical terms:
My way = 11 years
Our way = 9 months
Therefore: My way > Our way
Greater = Better
So, My Way is Better.
It makes perfect sense!
But, since the title of this post is “Balance”…I guess that’s what I’m going to have to try to find. For the sake of improving our marriage.
And for the sake of my sanity.
I mean, if he wants to grate the cheese twice, what do I care?