Of course you can’t know.

Dick could turn out to be a mass murderer tomorrow, and I would be the last person to know.

Not really. I keep pretty close tabs on that boy.

As I’ve told my sisters before, I knew that I had to marry Dick. That he was it. When he got cold feet after we’d been engaged for about a month (remember this is also just a month after we met), I felt that my life was over, and not just in a Twilight “I love you even though you’re a vampire and sometimes want to eat me” sort of way.

Basically, I said, Dick is my evidence that there is a God and that He cares about me.

Mary turned to Karen and said, “You’d think she’d treat him better, then.”

What? I treat Dick JUST FINE.

Maybe sometimes I get exasperated by Dick’s always dwelling in the land of never-never. In the kitchen, making mincemeat pie with his dad for Thanksgiving, Dick reminds me of Anne of Green Gables, who is always so busy daydreaming she forgets to add flour.

Sometimes I can’t revel in the nice things Dick does (like taking the kids home for bed while I see a movie with my sisters) because the next morning he brings them back to my parents looking like raggedy orphans.

You know how they say that in order to counteract one criticism you have to give seven compliments? It’s like that. Dick does or says one irritating thing, and suddenly the five or six thoughtful things he did just don’t quite make up for it.

Well, today he did one small thing that I think is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

I called him early to remind him to bring me fresh clothes and my glasses, and he told me how Susan, after snuggling with him in our bed this morning, had a little accident. We are not amused, Susan. You can’t just go an entire year accident-free and then have three accidents in two days, including one in MY BED.

Dick got a bit impatient with the long list of things I needed from the house. And the butter and ice cream and bacon I needed from the store. He may even have snapped when I suggested he get a pen and paper to write this all down. Wasn’t I sympathetic that he had to FIND THE BAKING SODA and THROW THE SHEETS DOWN TO THE LAUNDRY ROOM?

So finally he made it to my parents. He told me where everything on my list was, and then he said, “I brought you a Mountain Dew.”

That he would think of this on his own, and actually remember it and try to shrug it off as “they were just sitting there right by the door to the garage” –

I don’t even know how many irritating things that counteracts, Dick. Maybe a million.

Jane

One day I saw a thread on our listserv from one of the Fellows who’d matriculated into the group a semester before I did. So he was extra cool, being one of the “big” kids. And he was using a Walt Whitman quote as a stirring call to action about how we would help the poor beleaguered masses find their writing voices. I thought he sounded pretty condescending (and was kind of hijacking Whitman), so I responded with “What the hell are you talking about?”

Being the big nerd he was, he didn’t get mad, he was delighted that someone was stirred enough to issue a challenge. And that was when a few of my bad habits began. I started stumbling to the computer first thing in the morning to see if he’d replied to my latest salvo. I snuck into the Writing Fellows office and stole his literary biography, a writing memoir that was the first assignment a new Writing Fellow always completed. It usually turned into a Declaration of Writer-ness. I read his, about coming to school intending to study physics, about spending two years in Venezuela, about realizing that literature and writing were what he really loved.

I went home and told my mom I’d fallen in love, not that his essay was so great. It probably stunk almost as much as mine did, but I was in love with the person who’d produced it. Then I realized that I had no idea what he looked like, and a sudden fear struck me. Fear that he would be that one guy with thick glasses, awful shirts, and a fanny pack. The one who was always taking pictures and had floppy hair, not in a good-floppy sort of way.

Dear Lord, I prayed that night, anyone but him. I LOVE him, but, please, anyone but that guy.

My bad habits continued. I snuck into the Writing Fellows office again and found a picture of my Fellow. He was not the guy with thick glasses, awful shirt, and fanny pack.

There is a God.

He suggested, over email, that we meet, go out, further our acquaintance. I said yes, of course, because I was already in love with him. We joked about carrying roses in books or wearing yellow, but in the end his roommate picked me up on the way back from taking his girlfriend caving.

We were married four months later, and this weekend I realized that one of the things I am most grateful for in my whole entire life is that I fell in love before knowing what he looked like. Before seeing his face and wanting his strong body. Before his pheromones promised mine that there would be babies, sweet, chubby babies in our future.

Because I fell in love with him.

(And this week’s trash has not yet made it to the trash can, and tomorrow is trash day.)

(And he left out the blender. Again.)

Yesterday I walked to my cub scout pack meeting with all three girls (WHO ARE NO MORE WELCOME AT MY SCOUTS THAN THEY WOULD BE AT DICK’S SCOUTS) because Dick took the car to his voice-over lessons that he’s getting in exchange for blog consultation. The voice lessons which appeared on his schedule to help him podcast better. (AS IF I CARED ABOUT HIS DING DANG PODCAST).

Now, I know. It could be worse. Dick could be dead. Dick could be a selfish, narcissistic, insensitive creep who left us for a Barbie-type fantasy with LONG HAIR. Dick could be unemployed and uninterested in looking for work. One or all of our children could be terminally-ill with last-stage myofarcoinsentialoma. I could work all day at a real job and then come home to deal with the exact same problems.

But. Could anyone, male or female, explain to me why, when I need to leave the Smoking Brownie-Glass Chunks Everywhere mess in my kitchen for emergency Chik-fil-A fresh-squeezed lemonade (and dinner for the kids), I am car-less because Dick has driven FOUR BLOCKS. (WITHOUT KIDS).

Also, I know. I shouldn’t blame this whole (obviously hormonal) fiasco on being a stay-at-home mom — at least, certainly not on the “mom” part, not when Spot, seeing my weeping while vacuuming glass is intent on hugging my leg in comfort. And not when Susan, even after I spanked her mouth for repeating that very naughty word ONLY MOM CAN SAY says, “It’s okay Mom, you don’t have to be mad.”

But I’m sorry, all of you who have tried to claim some other title, like Homemaker or Soul Sculptors for the King of the Universe. I love my kids. They are the most significant part of my life. The only part of being a stay-at-home mom that I don’t like is the part where I SUDDENLY FEEL LIKE A SECOND-CLASS CITIZEN IN MY OWN LIFE.

Jane

Comment of the day from Emily Jones:

Oh man, I so feel ya. In my blog, I have a separate tag for poo parties, because they happen often enough to necessitate one. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who has days that age me 10 years. I’m also glad to know I’m not the only one who wants to run away from home. It’s almost easier to have a husband that beats on you, because then you can blame him guiltlessly. But when he’s a decent guy who works for a living, it’s harder to tell him he’s being a jerk.

*Not that I want to make light of abuse. If your husband is ANY WORSE THAN MINE in ANY way, please dump him. Right now.

2nd Comment of the day from Maggie:

Some days I feel the same way. Some days, as in days that end in Y. I’m sorry you had a bad day. I’m sorry your husband couldn’t walk his tush and leave you the car. I hope you have a better day today and an awesome weekend.

Blogging is the easiest and most easily rewarding way to write that I know of. But it can still be discouraging or upsetting or maddening. In the end, I blog (despite not turning blog-famous) because I have something to say.

And also, apparently, to communicate with my husband. Dick writes at IdRatherBeWriting.com, and today he’s got a post up about how living with a mommy blogger is great training for a corporate blogger. He totally misrepresents me in places, but I’m reminded that I fell in love with his thoughts and writing even before his hot body.

If you started reading Seagull Fountain after reading Dick, I only ask that you keep in mind that, while Dick’s college GPA was .02 higher than mine, I smoked him on the ACT, GRE, and dishwashing championships.

Why do YOU blog? (Or not?)

Jane

Dick: My left wrist feels like someone ran over it with a car, but I have no recollection of any injury to it.

Jane: @Dick Hope it wasn’t all the dishes you did last night. WAIT. You didn’t do any dishes last night (ever). Probably carpal tunnel .

(Sidenote: In going back to get this word-for-word, I noticed the tweet Dick had written two hours before the wrist thing. “Just thinking that my blogging life with Jane is the natural extension of a marriage of two English majors. Love reading her blog everyday.” Boy, I’m starting to look really bad here, huh? In my defense, all I can say is that Dick had played basketball the night before, and that he truly hadn’t washed a single dish since we moved into this house one month ago.)

Now, I recognize the wisdom in the advice given to women that they shouldn’t criticize the way hubs diapers the baby or barbeques the chicken or washes the dishes. I know just enough behavior modification to realize that criticizing the way someone does something they don’t enjoy anyway is not a good way to encourage them to keep doing it.

But. Dick does dishes the wrong way.

He does.

Plus he hasn’t cooked (yet) in this new house, so I was prepared to be exasperated when he started hunting through cupboards looking for the mixing bowl’s home. And I blushed deep red half-way through saying NOT THAT ONE:

Not that beautifully empty, extra-deep cupboard that I . . . completely forgot about when setting up my kitchen four weeks ago.

If I weren’t feeling so sheepish, I’d be overjoyed at the thought of an EMPTY CUPBOARD. That’s like a $20 bill in your coat pocket, waiting for weather cold enough for you to discover it.

What will I put in that cupboard? The possibilities are staggering, and endless. I’ll probably keep it empty as long as I can, opening the door to admire its rich blankness whenever I feel cluttered and overwhelmed. It’ll be my secret place. A reminder that now we have more: more space, more possibility, more home than we need.

Jane

(and thanks for doing the dishes, Dick. You’re the best. (husband and father, not dishwasher).

Sometimes the bloom seems off the rose, the glitter wears thin, and the once-in-a-lifetime is obscured by the everyday.

I usually avoid adultery movies. I’m just not interested in the rationalizations or romanticizations of being unfaithful. I don’t care how tragic or star-crossed or understandable it is that someone would cheat. If it could happen to them, it might happen to me, and I don’t like to think about that.

Then Dick and I moved to Seagull Fountain and entered a technology-drought like it was 1984. No internet, no TV, no internet. So we watched Spanglish, a movie we’d borrowed from my parents a year ago.

Dick loved it. Thought it was the best Adam Sandler movie ever (not a hard thing to be), and I thought it was the saddest movie ever. Until I watched The Bridges of Madison County for the first time, and decided that was the saddest movie ever.

Sad because I totally get why Francesca would cheat. Her husband, the farmer, slams the screen door. Every. Day. He’s silent during dinner. Her kids are normal teenagers (enough said).

That slamming door is so symbolic, I tell Dick. It means the farmer also leaves the lid up, the cap off, the blender out, the foreplay forgotten.

Oh, Francesca! Where do I find an itinerant National Geographic photographer of my own, eager to peel carrots and bring me drinks and ever-so-gently ease the door shut?

That silent screen door is so symbolic, I tell Dick. It means the photographer sees her. He sees her flaws and loves her anyway. He sees her dreams and rejoices in them. HE SEES HER.

At the end of the movie, when Francesca is devastated over the photographer leaving and her staying, the farmer notices that she is undone, and asks what is wrong. More tears. He asks again. She says she just needs a minute.

He reaches over to the radio and — Here it is, I think, here is where he turns the dial to Francesca’s favorite Italian opera music, proving that he, too, SEES her, and it is a SIGN FROM THE HEAVENS ABOVE that she has made the right decision (the staying, not the straying).

But no. He turns it to the Farm Report. Francesca cries. The photographer drives out of Iowa.

And then, as the stupid tears course down my cheeks, I remember a few things:

The farmer falls in love with Francesca in Italy and gives her all he has.

The farmer tells her that he cannot sleep without her beside him.

The farmer TAKES THE KIDS FOR FOUR DAYS so she can have some alone time.

The farmer asks her what’s wrong. Twice.

I don’t know about you, but if my husband takes the kids to the state fair for four days, I’m not thinking of cheating on him, I’m polishing my shrine to his saintly-wonderful self.

And not only does he notice when she’s upset, he asks her what’s wrong. Twice.

The farmer doesn’t see Francesca because she does not show herself to him.

My sister worries that our youngest sister will have a harder time taking the leap of faith into marriage, after seeing what happened to her could-have-been-perfect marriage. I think it is a darn good thing that Dick and I leapt when we were both just babies, too dreamy to guess how many things could go wrong.

After ten years of a marriage that I would like to continue forever, I have a few pieces of advice for both of my sisters and whomever they end up with:

For the men: Don’t slam the screen door.

For the women: Show yourself to your husband. (Every day). (Even when he forgets to ask).

For both: Don’t forget the . . . friendship.

Jane

That’s what works-for us. What works for your marriage? Got any advice for the single or the newly re-single?

But ever since Sally learned how to read, it’s been kind of nice that they have too many old hardback copies of Nancy Drew, The Secret Garden, and Danny Dunn and the Anti-Gravity Paint. Susan and Spot love Grandma’s picture books. Like toys, someone else’s books are always much more exciting that your own.

A couple months ago, Susan set down Grandma’s copy of Rapunzel long enough to discover Fanny’s Dream, an enchanting pseudo-Cinderella-type fairy tale. Fanny’s fairy godmother doesn’t arrive in time to send Fanny to the ball. Instead, her good friend Heber comes calling and offers her “one hundred and sixty acres, a little log cabin, and dreams of my own . . . and good food and great company.”

Fanny accepts, though she warns him that she doesn’t do windows. So Heber and Fanny settle down to a mundane life of farming, parenting, and laughing.

Here’s my favorite part (and a good candidate for fridge lamination):

As for Heber, he figured that it hadn’t been easy for Fanny to give up her dreams, so he made it a point to wait on her at least once a day, as if she were a princess, and every so often he wiped the grime off the windows.

When Fanny’s fairy godmother finally shows up, after three kids and a house fire and pig slopping, butter churning, and outhouse pranks played on Heber, Fanny has to decide whether she wants her current life or her dream life. I don’t want to give away the plot, but let’s just say I haven’t finished reading it yet without crying.

Last time I read it to the girls, I noticed an inscription on the title page: To Mom and Dad, love Jane and Dick, Christmas 1998. That was just six months after Dick and I were married. And I think I gave it to my mom because I know she gave up a lot of her dreams when she got married at 17, had me at almost-19, and then mothered continues to mother the five of us and grandmother the kids that we have added.

I guess it’s okay to hang on to some books forever.

Obviously, Fanny’s Dream Works for me!

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That afternoon I picked Dick up from work and drove to the boys’ apartment. I suggested he call to make sure the boys were ready to go, but Dick will sometimes do anything to avoid talking to people on the phone. After we’d waited a few more minutes and I nagged a bit more, he went in search of the boys (because that’s easier than actually making a phone call).

The boys weren’t ready. They weren’t packed, they hadn’t sewn on their patches. And they hadn’t made their tinfoil dinners yet. Dick was pretty ticked. Can you believe those boys hadn’t SEWN ON THEIR PATCHES or MADE THEIR TINFOIL DINNERS? I wondered if their mom was able to help, and Dick said their mom doesn’t know how to sew, and anyway, the boys SHOULD TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THEMSELVES.

So I reminded Dick that I had:

A) procured his shirt,

B) shopped for and assembled his tinfoil dinner,

C) bought the boys’ shirts and patches that were not sewn,

D) reminded Dick to get his sleeping bag and tent from my parents’ house,

E) reminded the boys the previous day that they should make tinfoil dinners and sewn on patches,

F) picked Dick up from work, and

G) washed and folded his clothes that he wanted to take.

You’re so right, Dick. Boys should learn to do things for themselves.

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I wasn’t going to admit that I was excited that we got to order in (free) lunch from that deli on Broadway because we were all so upset and of course I couldn’t even think of eating at a time like that. I think I ate a spinach salad, with bacon and hard-boiled eggs, and a vinegary-sweet dressing.

Earlier that morning my shoulder dislocated while I was using the thera-band from my physical therapist. Wasn’t the first time, or the worst time, but, oh! did I feel sorry for myself as I rode the subway to work. As I took the 1/9 to 116th and Broadway and walked through the quad at Columbia University.

Someone had a TV on in the lobby of the SIPA (School of International and Public Affairs) Building, and the rest of the day was a Kafka-like nightmare of helpless surrealism. We sat around the Economics Department with the lights half-on. We made plans to give blood, and then we heard that no blood was needed.

I wondered if Dick was okay and if I’d be able to make it home to The Bronx, if the bridges and tunnels and subways would be reopened soon. He was home with one-year-old Sally back then. Every day at four he dropped her off before going to class, and I took her home after she’d gotten lots of attention from Angela and Sharon and Leslie, and polite disinterest from Laura.

I had visited the World Trade Center for the first and only time two weeks before the attacks. My brother was visiting from Utah and wanted to see everything. I’ve got pictures of us with Sally in her MacLaren stroller. We have pictures of her, a little older, in the same stroller, in front of the photo and ribbon-festooned plywood barricades that ringed Ground Zero (and probably still do, for all I know).

I felt so stupid that day, for feeling sorry for myself about my dumb shoulder. Even stupider when reports of the bravery and desperation of the “Let’s Roll” people came out of Pennsylvania.

It was probably only weeks or days before I felt sorry for myself again, over something even dumber, like too many poopy diapers in a twenty-four hour period. Or a husband who liked to play basketball in the evenings instead of rushing home to be with us.

And then I’d remember to be glad, and immeasurably grateful, that he would be coming home at all.

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My dad is usually my first stop for medical advice (okay, after the internet), and he said that, coincidentally, he was scheduling a colonoscopy for my mom because she just turned 50, which is the age screenings should begin for those with average risk.

If you have a grandparent, parent, sibling, or child with colon cancer, you’ll want to have your first colonoscopy (or other screening) done 10 years before they were diagnosed. Which for Dick meant yesterday.

As others will attest, the preparation for a colonsocopy is much worse than the actual exam. It involves 24-plus hours of a clear liquid diet and nasty-tasting bowel cleansing medicine. But I’m afraid I wasn’t very sympathetic. I have borne Dick three children, after all, and frankly, bodily dignity is not worth forgoing children or a long, healthy life.

For the actual exam, Dick was knocked completely out. Some people don’t actually fall asleep, but if you are at all sleep-deprived or situationally narcoleptic (like Dick), you’ll be out before they have the camera turned on. In the recovery room, Dick was incredibly cheerful and loopy. I mean, more so than usual.

Dick now owes me his life, because they found a polyp in his lower colon. Probably not cancerous, not yet, but they removed it and will do a biopsy. Fewer than 20% of forty-year olds have polyps, and the doctor and nurses all congratulated Dick on having such a loving wife.

While Dick was at the hospital, I cleaned furiously, because:

1. I felt guilty for being mad about something he’d said even after he apologized quite nicely.

2. The house was a serious wreck and no one should have to come home to dishes in the sink after getting their keister probed.

3. I had to take my mind off the fact that if the doctor accidentally perforated his colon and had to perform emergengy surgery and if Dick died from a freak scalpel accident, the last post of mine he ever read would be one where I neglected to mention that, though I would not die for him (unless our children were already dead), if something ever happened to him, I would not be happy to still be alive.

If you or someone you love is at risk for colon cancer (and everyone over 50 is), please schedule a screening or talk to your doctor today. (Liz! This means you! Hie thee to the colonoscopist!).

I promised a Back-to-School Edition of Things That Must Go today (I know, you probably didn’t even notice, or miss it, or care, but just pretend, okay?). And now I’m all posted out. Saturdays weren’t doing much for me anyway, so I think I’ll try posting Things That Must Go on Sunday nights. I have some great (bad) ones stored up, and I hope you do too!

Then last week he threatened to sue for custody of the kids if she asks for the financial records the judge needs to determine allocation of assets, alimony, child support.

And she realized, after all the things that he has done, What He Is. I think this is common in battered women. They’ll take anything a PoD dishes out, but when he threatens to treat the children as his chattel, they’ll finally, PRAISE EVERYTHING HOLY, see him for What He Is.

My sister started house-hunting, even talked about opening her own checking account. She and I ran a 5K race (her first) on Saturday.

Today I got a voicemail from her asking if I knew anything about a boy I went to school with. He’s a dentist now, divorced or widowed, with three kids. A friend wants to set them up.

I told her last week, when she called, sobbing, overwrought over the PoD’s blackmail, that I promise her: In two years we’re going to sit down, and you’re going to tell me that you are transcendantly, radiantly happy now. Now that you know what marriage is supposed to be like, you’re going to tell me that the only thing bothering you is that you stayed for so long, and would have stayed forever if he’d let you.

Today I listened to her almost-normal voice on the phone, asking about someone new, and all I could think was, If Dick ever left I would be in my cave of devastation for years and not thinking about dating.

Maybe because I would also be mourning his death, as not many would survive what I can do with my Pampered Chef paring knife.

Or maybe because Dick is someone I cannot imagine ever being shallow, selfish, dishonest, narcissistic, or without honor. Or because he keeps his promises.

Or because: I do not know how that feels.

Motherhood, which I entered at 23, has been a series of stunning emotional highs and crazed, irrational rages. Fatherhood, for Dick, is no big deal. He likes our three girls (they are above-average), and when he is with them, he likes to play and go to the dollar theater and teach them how to ride bikes and to swim. He’ll also fold their laundry, never grasping that each has her own particular and exclusive size of clothing.

I am a stay-at-home mom. I do the (very) occasional freelance writing/editing project, and there is this blog, which will make enough for me to live on textured vegetable protein and ash cakes in another 5-10 years. I could go out and get a ‘real’ job. I could use my brain (which used to be very good, I want you to know). But I have chosen to “stay-at-home.” Not because that is all I am good for, or because I think that is a woman’s place, or because I am afraid of the working world or because I feel pressure from church or friends or family.

I stay-at-home because a) I have a husband who makes enough for us to live on (but not to own a second car), and b) my kids deserve me. I am the first to admit that I am not the best mom, and that there are probably nannies, child care centers, what-have-you that are better at crafts, guided-free-play, and Cooking in the Kitchen with Kids, but I am their mother, and as long as it is my name they call out when they need something, I’ll be there to negotiate. This is not a devaluing of me, it is a high-valuing of them. (Quite possibly too-high, especially when they’re tired and whiny, but that’s another subject).

Is being a stay-at-home mom a sacrifice of my other ambitions? Yes. Is it a betrayal of all the strides that feminists have made in the past century? That is the question.

Other questions are also raised by Lisa Belkin’s recent article When Mom and Dad Share It All. Beth Blecherman of TechMamas pointed me to Belkin’s new companion blog, Equal Parenting, at The New York Times. They’re both quite interesting, but also extremely maddening.

A lot of the parenting issues are relevant — I don’t know any woman who doesn’t wish her husband did more around the house and with the kids. And examining why we do what we do, and how that is often influenced by blind tradition rather than conscious thought is always a good thing. But two underlying premises were so wrong-headed as to make my three-year old’s tantrum look like a warm-up for Mama.

My first issue is a semantic one. Equal parenting sounds great to me: “equality in parenting should be every couple’s goal.” In scientific terms, equal usually means “the same.” Equal rightly meant “the same” in the social sphere after Brown v. Board of Education. Using “equal” and “the same” interchangeably makes things easy because equality becomes a matter of measuring and comparing quantifiable units.

But is “equality” as “sameness” even possible when it comes to parenting? Is it possible for mothers and fathers to do the exact same in terms of parenting? My husband contributed a sperm to each of our three girls. I contributed an egg, a uterus, nine months of morning sickness, frequent nighttime urination, and excruciating heartburn. Then I contributed my breasts for over three years total. Will he ever equal my contribution?

He’s already three body parts and 63 months behind. Obviously, the only way for me to honor my feminist urgings is to leave him with the kids and return in five years, hoping that they will have taken a physical toll on him equal to my sagging boobs and flapping belly.

On the other hand, is providing monetarily for children an aspect of parenting? If so, then I am eight years and many “metaphorical poopy diapers,” as Dick says, behind on this. He should be suing me for non-payment of child support. But that sounds just a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it?

Other definitions of equal include “as great as” and “alike in value.” We had friends in Cairo who were the best equal parents I’ve ever seen. I once asked Suzy how on earth they did it, and she said that when Josh was at work at the university, her job was to take care of the kids and house, and then when he came home, they split it (parenting/homemaking) equally. ! If only they could sell this secret to NASA.

You could (and probably should) make charts and lists for when both parents are home. This could be a regular, recalibrating exercise, like the helpful budgeting practice of tracking all the money you spend in a month. Once you see where your money or time goes, cooperative partners can make adjustments to make things better for each other, working from the premise that earning money and caring for children are both valuable contributions to parenting.

My second issue is with the very notion of what qualifies as “feminist” and “modern.” I have a lovely friend from college who is writing her doctoral thesis on Unassisted Childbirth (UC). When I first encountered UC, I was aghast. I’ve had three very medicated hospital births, thank you very much. Rixa has given birth at home, alone.

Recently another blogger found her and asked if “we are living in the 1800s” and, to explain her rationale for a hospital birth said, “I guess I’m just a modern lady, huh?”

Now, UC is not for everyone: it’s not for me. But I am struck by one woman thinking that another woman’s desire to be educated and deliberate about her birth choices is backwards and old-fashioned. As if childbirth in a hospital, where, despite the best laid-out birth plan, the medical hierarchy has the first, second, and final say in when the mother can poop, much less push out the baby, is the more modern, enlightened choice. Rather, a woman making her own choices (whatever they might be) strikes me as the very epitome of feminism.

Lisa Belkin has a similarly condescending attitude towards women and men who would choose a different lifestyle to the one that she has decided is modern and “equal.” She writes, of those who might object that:

If part of the security and warmth you feel from marriage is because of the familiarity and tradition of husband and wife roles, this won’t work for you, either.

Apparently, only an emotional, instinctive need to cling to the security blanket of “familiarity and tradition,” rather than conscious thought and rational consideration could possibly be behind anyone choosing not to parent “equally.” Let’s not even talk about whether logic should be privileged over “warmth.” And how that sort of ordering of reason over emotion is a patriarchal tradition clouding poor Lisa Belkin’s thought processes.

If the only way to be modern and a feminist is to follow the herd of working women to the office, then count me out, Gloria Steinem. My feeling unworthy as a woman for choosing to stay home would be just as unfeminist as a woman feeling unworthy for choosing to go to work. Feminism is (or should be) all about choices — women being able to make their own without worrying whether other women will consider the choice modern or hopelessly old-fashioned, progressive or lamentably traditional.

As a woman, I can be anything I want to be: a working mom or a stay-at-home mom or a work-at-home mom or a Britney-Spears-wannabe mom. Just don’t tell me that the only thinking choice is the first.

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Dick and I took a nap after the wedding brunch. When we were dating and smooching on the couch, careful not to move against each other, I never guessed I’d feel so awkward once those shoes were off. Or that I’d even notice traumatic arterial damage. Dick wasn’t very interested in my gaping wounds. And I soon forgot all about my treacherous shoes. Until the honeymoon was over and and we fought in our tiny student apartment. I read that the Communists in Russia allocated 175-square-feet to each adult; maybe we should have finished school in Moscow.

I returned the wedding shoes. It was an easy return: I still had the receipt, and the bright red stains embarrassed the clerk more than me. Though I really should have been ashamed to return yet another pair of ruined shoes. When you’ve got the easy-bleeder feet, you should learn to be more careful.

My jelly shoes, the shoes I saved for weeks to buy when I was nine-years old, made my feet bleed. Mom said those jelly shoes were a fad, as if that should make them less desirable rather than more, and impractical, and most likely uncomfortable. I knew I would die if I couldn’t have a purple sparkly pair. Mom wouldn’t buy them for me, but she did drive me on my fifteen-mile shoe pilgrimage.

Last week I saw my sister’s husband for the first time since he left her. Only I didn’t really see him; I couldn’t look at his face, or his body. I stared at his shoes. My sister wore a puffy princess dress with tulle and beading for her wedding seven years ago. She was beautiful. Young, feminine, happy, and I know she wore a bra. Probably high heels, though her husband is not much taller than she is. I’ve got three kids; she’s got three kids. We both thought our marriages would last forever.

I want my sister to think of herself, to protect herself, care for herself. I want her to get some Jessica Simpson boots and walk all over that rat-turkey, yellow-belly skunk. I want her to listen to her favorite Cherie Call song and realize she doesn’t want to walk in somebody else’s shoes any longer. But my sister doesn’t have easy-bleeder feet. She has a tender, tough heart and I can’t tell her when it’s time to give up on making something fit. I want to say that if she hasn’t been able to break in her marriage shoes yet, it’s an impossible task, but it’s her life. Her marriage. Her heartbreak.

I am in awe of her patience, much as I’d rather go barefoot.

—-

The shoe inspiration came from Scribbit’s May Write-Away Contest. I’m not really a shoe person (for obvious reasons), so this was quite a challenge for me. Check out Tara’s shoe entry. Now there’s a shoe person.

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Today I must confess to another sin of pre-judgement. I was wrong when I said The Book of Mom Bites. The End. Now that I have read all 261 pages, I can in confidence tell you that what I should have said was:

The Book of Mom Bites the Big Tuna. The End.

First, though, I’ll list the things I like about this book. Because I can only imagine how awesomely scary it must be to send forth one’s book to an uncaring world, like casting pearls before swine, or sending your firstborn to kindergarten. Will her teacher recognize that she is WELL above-average the first day?

What I like about The Book of Mom

I like that life/friendship/marriage/motherhood/people are portrayed as having so many ups and downs that it’s nearly impossible to determine whether they’re “good” or “bad.” But it’s hard to appreciate this when the characters and their relationships change too conveniently based on what kind of foil the narrator needs at any particular moment. (NM = Narrator Mom, BF = Best Friend):

NM Depressed = BF Perfect Example of All Good Things.
NM Enlightened = BF In Need of Reciprocal Wisdom.
NM Open to Husband = Husband Complete Jerk.
NM Resenting Husband = Husband Unexpectedly Sends Her to a Spa.

I like that tough topics are addressed: alcoholism, near-adultery, cancer, incest, borderline child abuse, unhappy marriages, and unfulfilled motherhood. But it’s hard to embrace this aspect because too often the revelation of a character’s issues (e.g.: BF witnessed father’s rape of sister, p 241) are transparent deux ex machina (ducks machines) tacked on ex post facto (after they would do any good plot-wise) that presumably explain otherwise incomprehensible behavior.

I like that these issues aren’t resolved satisfactorily. That resembles real life, right? But this is fiction, and some sort of resolution would be nice. If you don’t mind manufactured conflicts, surely manufactured solutions wouldn’t sully your writing aesthetic too much.

I like that friendship is so important to NM. I also sometimes wonder what on earth I’d do without my best friend. But NM’s friendships are a bit codependent, and I can’t help thinking that if she could be only one-tenth as understanding of and interested in her husband as she is her BF, she would have the best marriage on the planet. At one point (p 113), BF says “Honey, where have you been? We are married,” and I think that’s just wrong.

I could go on, about the fact that this book is fiction when it isn’t and full of New Age-y profundities that aren’t (p 237) and man-bashing (p 224-5) and dialogue so contrived and stilted (p 154) that at one point (p 226) BF asks NM: “Are you reading a script?” And all I can think, is, FINALLY, someone says something you might hear in real life.

Or I could point out how icky it is that in this work of “fiction,” NM finds the meaning of life in a workbook called A Course in Miracles, which happens to be the actual basis for seminars the author teaches in real life. Coming soon to a town near you: Taylor G. Wilshire (author) Teaches A Course in Miracles, Which Tate (“fictional” NM) Says Saved Her Life.

But I’ll just skip to the ickier and ickiest parts that make me want to pull out every strand of hair on my head. While jumping up and down on the ashes of this book.

Ickier Part of The Book of Mom

I think we can agree that the whole point of this book is figuring out how to embrace and enjoy (or at least survive) Mom-hood.

Right when NM reaches the bottom of her incredibly whiny downward spiral, she realizes that she and BF should create something together, “like a book that empowers children.” (I could point out here that TGW (author) is also coming out with a series of children’s books, but I’ll restrain myself). BF says the book should have a “parenting edge, like ‘Get off your cell phones, Blackberry, and email and be present for your children. . . . kids can’t wait, and we don’t get that time back with them. It’s lost.’” And NM says, “So your message is that parents should be connected and one with their children, living fully in the moment” (p 92).

The children’s book is written by NM and illustrated by BF. It is a success, and NM has to fly out-of-town for a signing on the same day that her oldest son has a special performance at school. He doesn’t understand why mommy won’t be there for him. NM explains:

I will be there; not in body but in spirit. . . my spirit is who I really am — it will be wrapped around tightly hugging you, embracing you. My words will be in your head telling you how much I love you. . . . If you get sad or scared, remember my heartbeat is tugging your heart. . . . I will be there every minute that you are there; I will not miss one beat, because my love will be all around you. . . . I’ll be the invisible power that walks in front of you and behind you. (p 175-6)

BUT I WILL NOT ACTUALLY BE THERE BECAUSE I WILL BE IN ANOTHER TOWN PROMOTING A BOOK ABOUT HOW TO PARENT CONSCIOUSLY BY BEING PRESENT FOR YOUR CHILDREN AND LIVING FULLY IN THE MOMENT.

Ickiest Part of The Book of Mom

Maybe we can agree that the other whole point of this book is that motherhood is a challenging, important thing, that, if approached with wisdom and love and balance, will be fulfilling. Also, armed with this new self-knowledge, a woman will feel that what she does as a wife and mother is of incomparable, intrinsic value.

NM’s strained marriage plays a big role in The Book of Mom, and, since the roles of mom and wife are often inseparably entwined, this should be a strength of the book. The biggest breakthrough in NM’s marriage comes when she is finally able to get her husband to see her as an equal partner after her new writing career takes off and she is a “working woman now. A working woman who got paid, that is — with money and respect.”

BECAUSE IF YOU ARE NOT GETTING MONEY FOR WHAT YOU DO, YOU DO NOT DESERVE RESPECT, EVEN FROM THE MAN WITH WHOM YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO BUILD A LIFE AND FAMILY WITH.

Of course there is nothing wrong with being a work-at-home mom or a working mom or a mom from Mars, but, please, do not tell me that those are the only options for a woman who expects equal partnership with her husband, or, heaven forbid, happiness. Do not advertise your book as a paean to finding sanity in being a stay-at-home mom and then slyly conclude that the only way you see it working is just that — for the mother to start really working. Have the guts and the wisdom and the insight, damn it, to share how you found being a MOTHER to be a viable role for women.

Or write a different book called The Book of Mom Who Earns Money. Just please don’t ask me to recommend it.

I hope that it is not codependent of me to say that I already miss him. I already miss his body next to mine in bed — close enough to touch, but far enough away in our king-sized bed for touching to be a matter of choice rather than necessity. I also miss that he will not be able to stay up until 2am before an important trip to fix my blog in Internet Explorer when it was perfectly fine in Firefox.

So this morning, well-rested, I drove, and ate my fourteenth McDonald’s breakfast in one month (is having a regular family order for the drive-thru an indication of nutritional abuse?). Dick could not find the airport if he were in a plane and it was lit up like a marching band. I said, “Don’t go,” in my cute little-girl voice and Dick just smiled.

He said, “Remember we can’t talk on the phone this time like we did last year.” Last year we were surprised by a huge bill for roaming charges even though national roaming, like long distance, is included on our Verizon plan. Apparently Vancouver is part of Canada, which is not actually part of the United States, but I think that’s just the phone company’s way of extorting more money. Along with not rolling over minutes and charging millions of dollars for calls originating at 8:59pm even though 99% of the call takes place after 9pm. Even if it’s 9pm in Vancouver, which is on Pacific Standard Time because Vancouver IS still along the Pacific Ocean, even if it turns out to not be part of the US of A.

Dick wondered if I remembered what our long conversations were about last year. Of course: he got lost driving from Vancouver to Seattle, because, as everyone knows, one has to cross an international border to do that. The only possible route is Highway 1, also known as Highway 99 in Canada (because in the metric system you number things from East to West), but it’s still really confusing because the signs are in Canadian English, so they say things like Turn Right, eh?

Dick remembered a different long conversation from last year. About my blog and something that wasn’t working right. Which hardly ever happens. I mean, computers always do exactly and only exactly what you tell them to do, right? And even if they did do something weird, what are the chances of my needing technical support right when Dick is supposed to go OUT OF THE COUNTRY? If he could just stay in the United States, I’m sure I wouldn’t need any help. And maybe Verizon would stop trying to convince us that Canada is not the 51st State.

—–

More MMSM

Tara wrote about her memories of BYU and what classes she would have taken if she had realized that what she would be spending her life doing isn’t exactly exhaustively covered in your basic liberal arts education. I remember when I first realized this — when we settled back in the US and I started to “stay-at-home” in earnest. Why did I think cooking/sewing/gardening/fix-it’ing were lamentably “vocational”?

Marianne at Writer-Mommy wrote about the bittersweet memories of her kids’ toddlerhood. Check out the picture of Mommy plus little girl plus baby. Is it just me or does the mommy look about 16 in that picture? Wish I looked that good AT 16! I love reading something where I think: I have felt that exact same thing, but this is expresses just so, so right. (Although, being still in the toddlerhood, I’m just assuming that one day I’ll miss it!). 

To join in the MMSM carnival, write on “memory” on your blog and follow these guidelines.

Oh, not for me. Dick and I fought like pole cats the first couple months of our marriage, ten years ago. We fought about the usual things: money, sex, how to spend our free time and who should be home cleaning the toilet on a fine Saturday morning. I said the “d” word once and Dick looked at me with hurt eyes; I hadn’t accepted that I could hurt him. But for him divorce was a real thing, because his parents were divorced. For me it meant “I’m really mad at you and right now I think not being married would just be simpler.” Neither of us has said that word, in relation to us, since that day.

But on Sunday, March 16th, 2008 at approximately 9:43 am, I found out that divorce can happen to anyone. It wasn’t me so I wasn’t hurt. It was someone I love, so I was mad. I wanted to pull newly-grown hair and smash Christmas ornaments and throw dinner on the floor.

In college you hear a lot about paradigm shifts. Adolescence could probably be characterized as that stage in a person’s life when (they think) they’re experiencing massive paradigm shifts between each class. My middle-aged humanities professor shocked me by saying that it had been a long time since he’d read a book that actually changed the way he thought about the world, and OH! How I pitied that man.

Threat of divorce has shifted my paradigm. It makes me feel rebellious. No one should have to turn herself into Clean House Barbie to keep her husband happy, or pretend to enjoy Jazz basketball or not to mind when the kids are not fed and in bed on the one night I go to the library after dinner. When I told Dick I felt like never cleaning again, he panicked, made me promise that I was just joking. Then I had surgery and had a medical excuse anyway.

I could probably turn into a model wife, for a week or so, at least. If I did, if I woke up and made lunches and saw him off with a kiss and a stack of French toast, and kept the house clean and kept up with our finances and never used the mean voice and picked up socks without asking, “Did you want these socks washed or were you going to wear them again tomorrow?” And if I made one of his five favorite dishes and had dinner on the already-set table and three happy, clean, and sweet-smelling children lined up to throw themselves at his legs at 5:52 pm. If I didn’t yell at them or let them hear me swear, would he love me more and think that I had lived up to the promise of my 30-pound lighter, not-stretch-marked, adoring, twenty-year-old bride-self?

Love me more: I don’t think so. Think I lived up to the promise better: probably. We did both promise to be our best selves. That’s not true. There was nothing in the actual sealing about setting goals or maintaining our figures or cleaning the toilets before doing fun things together on Saturday morning. Instead, though the LDS ceremony is slightly different, it including something about loving, honoring, cherishing. And while it didn’t say anything about in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, it did say forever, eternity. Which pretty much includes all the rest. And you usually think that the hard times would be the sickness and the worse and the poorer. But maybe those are the easy times — the times when you know you couldn’t possibly make it without your spouse at your side.

Without a man who will wipe your armpits with baby wipes when you can’t shower. Or laugh when your milk squirts him during an otherwise romantic, amorous moment. Or not even shout when you kill a laptop with your bare hands.

I didn’t really mean to write about what I don’t do to make my husband happy. And I meant to be humorous and light. Go read Marie’s Making Men Happy for a great, funny list of things men (at least the Ask.com men) want in a woman. And for proof that Google might be getting in touch with it’s feminine, nurturer side.

What I do try to do is: communicate to him that what he thinks and feels and does is important, significant, relevant. Make him know that he is the big tuna in my life, and always will be. That even though I wouldn’t actually rather get sick myself than see him sick, his health and comfort and life and happiness are vital to my own.

I would promise, like Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story, to always be yar. But I know I’ll use the mean voice again. I’ll get mad that he is Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. I’ll wish at least one of us were independently wealthy. I’ll even, heaven forbid, swear in front of the children again. But with my paradigm forever shifted, I’m seeing the sickness and the worse and the poorer as opportunity to thank God for knowing better than I what was good for me.

____

I think this week (month?) has been hard for a lot of people. Hard to smile when terrible things happen. Loraine has a post, Still Trying to Smile After Sunday, that nigh unto broke my heart. I usually feel pretty darn callous. What do I care about someone I don’t know? But determination to find something, anything to smile about is irresistible. My favorite line? “Likewise, Mekare finally cleaned off the coffee table- wait, one of the kids already threw her hoodie on it.” That’s my life, in a nutshell.

____

To participate in the brave new world of the Makes-Me-Smile Monday carnival, write on today’s topic “How to keep your husband (or other loved one) happy” and then follow these guidelines.

____

Before you object, let me say that I believe that if anyone is in a relationship with an addict or abuser or adulterer or abandoner who is not 100% committed to changing and to the relationship, they should get out. Even (especially?) if you have kids and even if the abuse or abandonment is emotional rather than physical. Staying in a bad relationship on the strength of what once was is too Rose for Emily-ish. Get out.

So it’s not my slovenly and self-pityingly-gluttonous well-groomed appearance or near-catotonic slobbering sparkling wit or even my impatient, helpless martyr-like good cheer that keeps Dick around. I did promise him that if our situation is ever reversed, and he is crippled or demented or cancerous or just old and cranky, I will wipe his bum gladly, and turn him regularly so that the bedsores have a chance to heal.

Sometimes I wonder if Dick is patient and caring with me because he loves me or merely because he is a good person. And would I prefer to believe that he is genuinely good, or that he would just do anything for me because he worships me? Without the sacrilegious issues, of course.

Either way, life, married life, is not what I expected, and the way I love Dick and am loved by him are not what I expected. For better or worse.

I fell in love for the first time when I was eighteen. It was giddy, and fabulous, and ferocious. We played board games and drank fizzy fake white wine. I fell in love with the smell in the crease of a neck, with smooth, golden skin and thick, dark-blond hair. With dazzle and charm and charisma. Fast driving and loud music and a feeling of being special, and needed, and cool.

I learned to tone down my own ambition and hide my own inclinations. I agreed that my family were hopelessly uncool and just wanted me to settle down, settle in, behave. I apologized for things that weren’t my fault, even for things that I should have been proud of. I couldn’t be happy unless my love was happy, and my love was not often happy. I tailored myself even more and stopped dreaming about the future.

Sometimes, before you can go home, you have to leave home. I went to Europe. Mom drove me to the airport and I got on a plane for the first time in my life without saying goodbye. I had to buy expensive tampons at an airport store in Amsterdam; this was before 9/11, so I stared at the security guard with the Uzzi. He didn’t care about my tampon purchase, or the fact that flying, especially the landing part, is not very glamorous with nasal congestion. It just hurts.

When you leave home you can think about home better than you ever could when you’re there. You figure out what you like (yogurt and custards and good bread) and what you really do hate (selfish people) and what you can live without (being cool) and what you need to have in your life (someone who’ll soap you up all over even when you can’t return the favor).

I came home and met Dick a year later. We were so dumb and silly when we got married. He warned me that he would probably always be poor, and that sounded romantic. I suddenly wanted to have six children and raise them in the woods, with cloth diapers I’d sewn myself from cotton I’d gleaned from the fields.

I couldn’t talk to Dick for any length of time without getting harpy and passionate and urgent. Love, this time, was not shutting in or stepping back or cleaning up. I never had to temper myself for him. Of course, his favorite part of Enchanted is when Giselle experiences and expresses anger for the first time. (I don’t know if that’s a good sign, or if I should have just stopped at Dick’s favorite part of a Disney movie . . .)

Dick made fun of the poor cripple tonight when we ran out for milk and bread (and teeth-whitening strips and a ball for Spot and bananas for Sally and strawberries for Susan). He shuffled one leg and huddled his right arm protectively at his side. Today was a hard day. I think we can add mild depression and general malaise to the side effects of percocet (besides the regular constipation and Total Foggy Mind).

The kids jumped on me until they jarred my shoulder and I yelled. I called Dick and begged him like the strong woman I am to come home early. He did. He walked in the door and the kids swarmed him, and I took a deep breath. When Dick comes home, when I anticipate sleeping close to his familiar arm and leg and hand, life actually seems almost as shiny as we thought it would be ten years ago. Before the two shoulder surgeries and the miscarriage and the elephant-man allergic reactions and the three kids and the dangerous drug neighborhoods and the messy house and the mean voice. Before living in Japan and New York City and Cairo, where we were alone together, far away from anything remotely resembling what home had meant to us before.

Going home to Dick, every night in our bed, the entire world shut out and unimportant, I forget my frustrations and disappointments and I know that life is everything I ever hoped it would be. And you know that not even percocet can create an illusion that good.

—–

I’ve entered this in Scribbit’s April Write-Away Contest. I know. I think I’m getting sick that way.

I asked if I were the only one to experience greater desire for sex than my husband and expressed frustration with (esp. Christian) marriage advice that assumes a man’s desire is always much greater, and bases whole marital strategies on this assumption.

Besides asking for help, the topic helped my post’s popularity. As one lurker commented, “I guess all it takes is the mention of sex for me to make a record of my cyber-presence on your blog.” Your response was overwhelming in understanding and good, concrete advice as to what I could do to reduce my frustration (both mental and physical, eh).

An interesting issue that has arisen from the continued comments is sex after pregnancy and childbirth. About how the maternal body reacts to pregnancy, labor and delivery, in feeling, perhaps, more vulnerable emotionally or physically, and also in experiencing pain again. I remember after my first daughter’s birth I was shocked by how much sex hurt (not as bad as our wedding night, though, when I feared we would have to get an annulment).

One commenter said that she was experiencing much reduced interest in sex post-baby, and that “with all of the lactation hormones . . . [I'm] feeling very protective of my own body, something I never experienced until after I had a baby.” I know another woman who experienced phantom pain and lingering fear, almost, of sex after childbirth.

Maybe this is just Nature’s way of spacing out our babies?

I’m curious as to how giving birth has affected you. Beyond the obvious sleep-deprivation and time-consuming care-of-a-new-infant issues that logistically limit opportunities/desire for sex, did you find yourself feeling more vulnerable or more protective? And has your experience varied after a first, second, third, etc, birth?

And one final, final question: What’s the best thing your husband’s ever done to make you feel desirable? Loved? Eager for intimacy? (I’m looking for hints to give Dick).

Thanks again for your willingness to share your ideas and advice on this topic!

Someone made me mad at church today. Not an uncommon occurrence, though usually I just feel sympathy for the mis-opinionated. Unlike Giselle in Enchanted, I easily recognize and feel anger, and in the past couple of weeks I’ve felt enough anger for . . . well, for myself and for someone who hasn’t felt much anger for herself.

I bore my testimony (“testified”) today, and I talked about agency (“free will”) and about how my sister is experiencing a trial worse than any trial I ever imagined she or I would go through. I wasn’t trying to be melodramatic; I wanted to express my own hurt and my admiration for her reaction to this trial. Instead of wallowing in anger and destroying things (my natural inclination), my sister has responded by reading the scriptures more, praying more, and spending time with her kids and our family.

Maybe it sounded like I would be mad at God if something like this happened to me. That’s not what I meant; I’d be angry at someone whose clothing I could shred and valued possessions I could take a baseball bat to.

A few speakers after me, a prosperous-looking, attractive young man got up and did his spiel. He said we shouldn’t get mad at our trials, and shouldn’t even be surprised by them. They are, after all, what we signed up for in coming to this earth. We knew we’d be tried and tested, tempted and tribulated. Embrace the trial! Turn to God and all will be well!

Dude! Did he think I was talking about a hangnail that’s giving her some trouble?

If one believes in a literal resurrection, and in the atonement’s power to cleanse sin, then the worst possible thing to ever happen to someone is the refusal to repent (or to be affected by someone who refuses to repent). This is not to diminish the immense pain that accompanies death or miscarriage or disease, but just to say that they all CAN be fixed, eventually. If I refuse to repent, however, that can’t be fixed.

And, for those whose religious convictions are different, surely you would agree that to break one’s solemn promises, to refuse to even try to honor one’s vows and covenants, is pretty low. And that the people affected by such broken promises are facing real devastation.

The funniest thing about that young man’s testimony was that he was so sure of these things that he has learned through “my many years of experience.” Right. Because he’s 24 and single and childless and looks like he has suffered. Oh, how he has suffered.

My mom said that maybe we shouldn’t be letting our daughters watch these Disney princess fairy tales all the time. Because what are they learning? Happily ever after and prince charming and animals coming to help you with the housework.

I’d agree with her, and I did introduce my sisters and mom to Sara Bareilles’ Fairytale, which gets more clever every time I hear it. BUT, happily ever after, that people should get married and stay married, and that families are meant to be together forever is what we believe in. It’s not just a Disney movie, it’s what we believe.

I loved Dooce’s testimonial to the benefits of Getting the Help You Need. Absolutely required reading for anyone who has ever felt remotely out of control. (And who hasn’t?)

We had a friend in Cairo whose father had severe headaches for 12 years after losing an eye and getting a glass prosthetic. When he finally went to see a doctor, they found that his glass eyeball was a size too large. Easily fixed the problem, and bingo, no more headaches. Only think of the 12 YEARS of pain he suffered through.

Though I often feel sad enough or unmotivated enough or anxious enough to take a long “nap” in the middle of the day, which is usually just me with my eyes closed under a heavy blanket, fantasizing what I would do with a million dollars (it’s relaxing), I think my body is regulating my serotonin or whatever pretty well. But if it were not, I would be on the phone to my doctor this minute.

Especially if I were experiencing any other stress in my life, like moving or having kids or not being able to have kids or having a husband or not being able to live with my husband or changing jobs or changing life phases, etc.

So, I am pleased to tell you that I have finally decided to take my own advice. Recent events have shown, again, that marriage is fragile. Dick and I are coming up on the 10-year mark, and for our anniversary, I would like to go to counseling. The In Real Life kind, not just the talk about our sex life on the internet and get really good advice from fellow marrieds kind, though that sparked a lot of good interaction between us.

I talked to Tara about this while we were in Arizona last week, and I admitted that there is one big drawback to the counseling plan. She said, the cost? And I hadn’t really considered that aspect. We can see a good therapist through our church for about 75 dollars a session, which is a lot of money, but not much more than your average couple would spend on a regular date (although not Dick and me; we go to the dollar theater and Mexican hole-in-the-wall type places, but we could save up).

No, the drawback I see is that I already know of a bunch of things I could do to make our marriage better (stop the mean voice, work on my appearance and outlook through exercise and, I don’t know, maybe some lipstick or something, support him in his work, church obligations, and hobbies, stick to our budget, etc). I don’t need a counselor, so it goes, to tell me how to have a better marriage. Why pay good money for what I already know (even if I don’t do)? But maybe that is the same argument other people use to avoid getting help they need.

So we’re gonna go. And while we’re saving up, we’re going to re-read/work John Gottman’s The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work that Grampa Dave gave us for our fifth anniversary. Here’s an online quiz you can take to gauge how well you know your partner. And there are a bunch of other great quizzes and questionnaires on Martin Seligman’s Authentic Happiness site. Dave gave us his book too, along with that Tale of Two Brains dvd. Think he wants to see our marriage succeed?

I think counseling and couple-help books will work for us, even if we are doing pretty well. Could always be better right?