My Husband Project

A little over three weeks ago, my husband told me he thought maybe no one in our household liked him very much. It wasn't true. 

What was true, however, was that Jeff was (and is still) outnumbered. Three emotional females reside in this house with him, and two of them are trying to grow up. One of them is sort of  "grown up" already, but still growing. 

And Jeff, the rock that all our emotional waves crash up against, was feeling unpopular. He was feeling ill-equipped to deal with some of the stuff our girls are going through. His macho tool box just doesn't have everything he needs to make his daughters feel loved and understood.

But in reality, Jeff is not unpopular despite being sometimes annoyingly male. He is our hero. The other day the girls and I were watching Despicable Me, and when Gru starts vaulting bombs to rescue Margo, Edith and Agnes, my 10 year old turned to me and said, "That's what Daddy would do for us." And he would. 

So I decided Jeff feeling unpopular was not acceptable. I decided to do "The Husband Project." 

Author and Speaker Kathy Lipp wrote "The Husband Project: 21 Days of Loving Your Man On Purpose and With a Plan." Basically, the book has 21 small acts of kindness that I, the wife, undertake to make my spouse feel loved. You're not supposed to tell him you're doing it. You're not supposed to do it with an agenda: to get him to change. The intention is to change yourself as a wife. I first bought the book and did the project about five years ago. My children were smaller, and my resentment against my husband was bigger. After meeting children's needs all day, I wanted him to come home from work and meet mine. 

That time, when I did the project, I started with gritted teeth. I prayed for God to please, please let me do these nice things for Jeff without expecting him to start doing nicer things for me. I was desperately afraid my resentment would get worse. The process worked. It made me realize that I had forgotten why I liked being married, and that the kids and their needs had totally eclipsed my husband's. By doing nice things for him, I remembered that I not only loved him, I liked him. And then I liked myself better too. 

This time, I found the labor of love to be more fun, and less labor. And this time, I had a support system. I brought up The Husband Project to three girlfriends at school pickup, and they immediately wanted in. Then they invited people to join us, then others invited us to join them. Ultimately, I think we had 10 women on a facebook message loop sharing their stories, impressions and ideas of the process. Some women did something every day; some cherry picked their favorite. We gave each other and ourselves grace. And we all learned something I think.

We aren't all of the same faith, we are aren't all in the same stage in our marriages, but we're sort of all in the same boat. We forget that we are blessed to be women with families and that our families wouldn't work so well without our men. It was both touching and hilarious to hear how their projects went. My favorite days were  as follows: 1)  when we were supposed to dress nicely with our husbands in mind -- some women did the works and no one noticed, while others wore matching pajamas and their husbands were in shock and (2) when we were supposed to send a flirty text or email -- and our facebook comments went just a little past PG-13. 

My big take-away in my own marriage is that I am actually able to give my husband what he needs, most of the time. I worry that I am not emotionally even enough for my sweet, stable man. I worry that if I go on a crying jag at the end of a bad day that I've really let him down and burdened him. Having a history of anxiety and depression, I can still experience a lot of shame sometimes when I'm struggling with this predisposition to have to fight a little harder than most for emotional stability and metal clarity. And I hide it from my husband when I'm struggling. Half way through the project, I had a few really hard days, and it wasn't until I blubbed like a baby to my husband that I felt better. And it didn't seem to bring him down at all. What a relief!

On the other hand, the fact that I did things like take out the trash when it was his turn, cleaned out the inbox on our desk, made an extra effort on a couple of dinners, and bought him a bag of black licorice went a long way toward making him feel like he is happily married and well taken care of. Who knew? Being a good housewife, actually makes me a better wife. I sometimes feel sort of "above" caring for those little things, thinking they don't matter. But apparently they do, to Jeff at least. He receives those things as love. And now that the kids are in school all day, the little housewifely things aren't nearly as hard to do as they used to be. 

And meanwhile, though I really went into this without an agenda to change Jeff, I noticed changes in him anyway. When he was feeling unloved in our family, he made the courageous decision to ask himself why.  Being pretty stable himself, my dear husband is coming to a realization that life as he knows it is going to continue to flux around him, so more flexibility on his part shall be required. People often see that they have room for improvement and either shame or apathy or selfishness makes them choose not to try. 

Jeff tried. He's been carving out more time to just hang out with the girls, to make them feel loved, and to listen to them. It's pretty hard to be more loving when you don't feel loved. And who knows but that bag of licorice or that flirty (PG) text I sent him at work didn't help him have the energy to do it? Maybe I made him feel less like the odd one out, and more like our hero.

The 21 days are up, but I hope I'll keep it up anyway. I like having a hero in my house.

Man of our House

If I had to pinpoint the number one thing that bugs me about my husband it's that he is a man. He has Man thoughts . He listens like a Man. He solves problems and approaches emotions like a Man. On the weekends, he has Man priorities that often involve sandpaper or power tools. When I'm trying to get to my moisturizer in the bathroom or the toaster in the kitchen, his big Man body is often in my way. 

On the other hand, if I were to say my favorite thing about my husband, it is also that he is a Man. In our family of four, he is the only one we have. I sometimes wonder how he copes with that. As he comes to the back door at 5:30 p.m., briefcase in hand, and surveys the swirling emotion and twirling princess skirts going on in the kitchen, it's amazing that he doesn't walk right back out to his car and flip on ESPN radio. 

If there is something more attractive to a woman than seeing the father of her children lie on the floor and play Barbies I don't know it is. I love seeing my 6'2" husband curled up on pink twin bed, his body being used as a diving board for stuffed animals or Littlest Pet Shop kitty cats. He reads girlie stories in his Man voice, and raises it an octave to sing silly songs. In our daughter's school Father's Day project, in a sentence that said "Whenever I need advice about.... I just ask my dad," she filled the blank with: "how my outfit looks." A Man without sons, my husband walks into the world of Girls with grace, tenderness, (dare I say it?) style.

And then also, he brings Man activities into their lives, giving them balance. He favors phrases like "Rub some dirt on it" and "suck it up." Our eldest daughter received a real tool set from her father when she was four: complete with level, socket wrench and sand paper. He is her personal soccer coach, her bicycle instructor, her fiercest opponent in wrestling matches. Likewise our youngest, not the most adventurous toddler, benefited from our Man's motivation to get her in the pool, on her two wheeler, and up playground ladders. She now finds that Daddy is her best jungle gym and and excellent Vader to her Skywalker in light saber battles.

I have said before, perhaps in this blog, that Jeff can be the rock we all break against. I happen not only to be a Woman, but a pretty emotional woman. Together, we are raising emotional daughters with all the upheaval that entails. I sometimes get a picture in my head of Jeff, standing firm and refusing to be affected as all of us churn and crash up against him. Sometimes that firmness bordering-on-stoicism irritates me, but in reality firm is what we often need. Our man is the rock we lean on. 

Being the father is a very tough job. Our Man gets us at our worst: early in the morning and during the witching hour at night. Sometime I want him to swoop in and fix things already, when I am tired and overstimulated by a day at home alone with the kids. And then I turn around him and tell him to just listen, don't fix.  (At this point, he's wishing I came with a manual like his scroll saw did.) He has a limited time to make an enormous impact, less time to study and know the kids than I do, and yet his influence is absolutely as critical. I'm proud to say that my husband is making the most of his role, not doing it perfectly, but very, very well. 

As I write this, the Man of our house is in our four-by-four foot powder room with a three gallon air compressor, getting ready to install some crown molding (I couldn't make this up if I tried). In the back yard, he has set up his Craftsman miter saw. This is his idea of kicking back on Father's Day weekend. Man thinking! I'm not enjoying the noise (in fact, I am jumping out of my skin every 95 seconds), but I will enjoy the molding when it's finished. Just one more reason I'm happy that this man is the Man in our house.

Love Can Be Annoying

My husband is trying very hard to give me a nice Mother's Day. He has formed "the Mother's Day Committee" and members include himself and our two daughters. This morning the committee's mission was to eat breakfast, get dressed, count their money, and go out shopping for a couple of hours so I could baste a quilt on the kitchen floor, a project I've been wanting to get to for six weeks or so.  I believe the committee has also been exhorted by the Chairman to avoid complaining, be obedient, and be kind. 

I decided to celebrate the start of Mother's Day weekend by picking up the upstairs of my house. I put away my own laundry and ironed two of my husband's shirts. I made the bed, put away all the hairbrushes in the bathroom , and cleared the hallway floor of clutter. Downstairs, Jeff made the girls their first bagel and turned to ESPN.com, and just as I was sitting down to eat mine, I had to get up to make them their second because they didn't like the first. 

All these necessary things having been done, I announced (first mistake) that I was going out to drink my coffee and read a devotional in peace. Livie immediately wanted to follow me, and when Daddy said she couldn't she began crying and pounding on the sliding door.

"Hey, the Mother's Day Committee doesn't throw temper tantrums," my husband says. That didn't work. So  he locked the sliding door (not sure what purpose that served, since our daughter knows how to unlock it), and took her upstairs. I read my devotional to the soothing sounds of birds chirping and my four year old yelling "I want Mommy" from her bedroom window. 

Scripture and coffee both having been consumed, I got up to go get my second cup of coffee. And found my family had locked me out of the house. 

Upstairs, Livie was no longer crying, but was now in the shower with Daddy. Well, I wanted to be alone in the backyard, and now I had no other choice. 

When they finally came down and let me back in, the girls emptied their piggy banks out on our echo-producing laminate flooring, and spent 15 minutes clanging quarters and having melt downs because they had lost count. I would gladly at this point have given them each a quiet $20 bill and sent them out the door, but they really wanted to buy my gift with their own money.

When finally they left the house, I wished them luck on their shopping trip and told them to take their time.

The quilt is now basted and they are still not back. So I'm taking a moment to reflect on the fact that my children love me more than anything else in the world. So much that they often can't seem to live without me for even the time it takes for me to take a shower, go to the bathroom, or read four lines about peace and joy from the Bible. So much that they want to buy me something with every last penny in their piggy bank.

And my husband, chairman of the Committee, loves us all so much that he is trying to make every one of us happy, even though he ends up doing things like locking me out of the house.

The Committee made a bit of a mess of things this morning, but they've been gone about 90 minutes and I miss them. I'm learning to accept their imperfect attempts to please me, for what other choice do I have? And I certainly pray that they accept my stunted, fractured haphazard attempts at loving them. 

There may be a perfect moment in the next 24 hours: when we are all clean and smiling, have full bellies and I have hot coffee in my hand. No one will be kicking anyone else, or talking too loud or chewing in anyone's ear or refusing to share or be locked in the back yard or shut up in their room. And it will last about three and a half minutes. But it will be enough. 

Imperfect love may be annoying, smothering sometimes, even. But until I get to heaven, it's the only love I get from my family, and certainly the only kind I have to give. But it is precious, and it is enough.

Hey DJ, Keep Playing that Song

Today is Jeff and my 12 year wedding anniversary, and for the last week I've been thinking about my husband of the last dozen years, my sweetheart for the last 16, and all the things he is to me. I decided his multiple positive roles deserved a blog on this day. Here goes.

My D.J. Since 1995, the soundtrack of my life has been arranged by Jeff. Thanks to used C.D. stores and BMG music club (back in the 1990s), he has satisfied his voracious musical appetite, and broadened the spectrum of what I listen to. He introduced me to Sarah McLauchlan and Neil Young. The way I first knew he was "into" me? A mixed tape with Weezer on one side and "Not Weezer" on the other side, a mix containing Oasis' "Wonderwall" which was our first song ("I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now..."). He knows how to set a tone that will make me feel good. For our recent anniversary road trip, Jeff made us eight CDs with 18 tracks a piece, a mixture of Tom Petty, Patty Griffin, The Decemberists, the Weepies, the Swell Season, and a whole bunch of other things I didn't recognize. Good stuff, man.

My GPS Navigational System: Just last week, I called home, frantic, from the 405, where I had almost exited Beach Blvd instead of Seal Beach Boulevard (about 8 miles off) on the way to meet a friend at a location I'd never been. With a dying cell phone battery at my ear and a bunch of orange detour signs out the window, I shrieked into the phone and my calm-as-usual husband, armed with google maps, talked me through it and got me there safe. This is a common occurrence. Until I get GPS in my car, Jeff is the one who makes sure I get where I'm going.

My Comic Sidekick Hubby is the Abbott to my Costello, the Andy to my Connan, the Chris Tucker to my Jackie Chan. Sometimes I can't get my next funny line out, because I'm still laughing so hard at his last one. Our senses of humor are idiosyncratic, but in sync. All day today, we've been calling each other Hoagy Charmichael and Neil Sugarman (each contributors to the Michael Buble album Jeff gave me this morning. I'm Hoagy.). Gosh, but we think we're funny.

My Copy Editor I can't spell, as Jeff learned back when we were corresponding across the Atlantic at a rate of at least one love letter a week. He finally wrote me to say that "agree" had only one "g." He's been checking my spelling ever since in everything from birthday cards to blogs. Last week I called him at work to find out how to spell "laminate" (well, he's an architect and it's a building term and I couldn't figure it out because I thought it had an "n"). That was crossing a line, he said.

My Filter Okay, so I have a tendency to say things out loud that I shouldn't. When in doubt whether or not to confront that friend, make that comment, or write that idea in a blog, I ask Jeff. He will tell me if it's appropriate or not. (Side note: if I know it's not appropriate but want to say or write it anyway, I do not ask Jeff.)

My Sharpener As it says in Proverbs 27:17, "As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Or, as Michael Buble sang on my anniversary CD, "You make me work so we can work to work it out." Jeff has always made me want to be a better person, and in fact, I am actually succeeding under his influence. It's hard to demonstrate a lack of integrity around him. I can't yell at the kids. I can't be mean to my mom (when he's listening). I can't gossip. And I can't manipulate him emotionally (not that I want to, very often). He's too smart. The fact is, his opinion matters most to me of anyone's, and as he's a better person than I am, I have to keep raising my standards.

My Handyman and Bicycle Mechanic I can count on one had the amount of time in 12 years that I have had to pay someone to fix anything around here. He rocks at garbage disposals, wood glue, plaster, epoxy, jewelry repair. He recently installed a new gear shift on my bike. He rocks.

My Personal Shopper This may sound like a weird thing to say about one's husband, but Jeff has great influence on my style. It's even weirder because when I met him he was wearing a pink backpack and argyle socks with his Vans and shorts. But he pushes me to creative accessory and color combination and he always buys me cute things. He thinks I never listen to his opinion about what to wear (gosh, does he hate being asked about my outfits), but I do!

My Friend Still my most loyal and fun friend after all these years, Hubby is just a good person to spend time with. I can be myself around him, and I like the self that I am when I'm around him. We make each other better, as he wrote in our wedding vows.

So D.J. Jazzy Jeff, as I like to call you, keep the hits coming, honey. You know what I like.

A Clean Slate for Christmas

At our home, the beginning of the yuletide season is marked by exhaustion and dehydration. This painful tradition, usually occurring the day after Thanksgiving, started six years ago, our first year as parents in our own home. Jeff -- on a mission to be our neighborhood's Clark W. Griswold -- went wild with the Christmas decorations in the backyard to the tune of 28 light strands and a dozen light-up characters.

The first year it took him 8 eight hours to install. He was a wreck by the time he came inside. Having blown several fuses, he had to redirect multiple strands so as not to overload any one circuit. He assured me, however, that the next year would go much smoother, and held up in his work-worn hand an 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper. On it, he'd drawn a detailed schematic of our back yard in black ink, with colored marker lines representing each strand and a letter "C" for each connection. Each cord in our yard was then tagged with colored tape. Hubby's diagram had notes on it that read things like "flashers at upper eave w/ icicles w/ flashing lights around windows" and "3 lines connect santa & reindeer w/ ext. cord." There are also marks resembling cave paintings that represent the pattern the lights will form on all sides of our fence. (Do I need to mention here that Hubby is an architect?)

For years, this system has stood, and it has indeed expedited things. It takes more like six hours to do lights now, even with the addition of an 11-piece light-up nativity scene that wasn't on the original plan. Even so, I always partially dread Decorating Day, because I know it will mean me in the living room with a dozen boxes of retro holiday finery and two needy kids, and Jeff outside, a man alone with his staple gun and his dream. That evening usually finds us both near catatonic, drinking sports drinks with our feet up on empty plastic ornament totes.

So this year, I was feeling inspired to embrace our mad decorating as part of our family's culture, but I was also looking to let go of the things that aren't working. First of all, the concept of "decorating as a family" does not happen with a three and six year old. So, we sent the kids to Grammy and Grampy's for the day (which turned into overnight and to which we say to my in-laws, "thankyouthankyouthankyou"). We decided we'd decorate as a team by day, and actually go on a date that night.

But then,we opened one of the insanely heavy boxes labeled "exterior lights," and found Jeff's detailed schematic in a tragic state. The black pen delineating our yard's perimeter and patio cover remained, but the marker representing each strand had apparently gotten wet, and had blurred into an attractive but completely useless aura of Crayola color.

Okay, clean slate it is. We separated into our usual duties for the first two hours, I with my nutcrackers and Christmas Spode, and Jeff with his staple gun. More blown fuses; more rehanging of blown out circuits. Then we came together to set out our 20 -- yes, you read that right -- vintage ceramic trees in every room of the house. And I'm proud to say, we left the backyard undone and went out for happy hour and the latest Harry Potter.

So we both broke from and maintained tradition at the same time this year. No dehydration on the day after Thanksgiving, and Hubby scaled down his backyard illumination (it's bright enough to read 10-point font out there, though). But still, we ended up with a day of divided labors after all, as I watched the kids on Saturday and Jeff continued his stapling.

Added to our extensive collection of treasured Christmas memorobilia this year: that watermarked schematic, the embodiment of my husband's Christmas spirit and technical know-how, and a reminder that to have joy in our world, we sometimes have to let go of our best-laid plans.

Garage Sale Widow

It’s 7:45 on Saturday morning. Do you know where your husband is?

I know where mine is. He’s at a 20-family garage sale. I can picture him. Right now he’s either trolling down some residential cul-de-sac at 5 miles an hour, peering through the windows of our SUV and trying to decide if he sees anything worth stopping for. Or, he’s got his baseball-capped head submerged in a box of records; or he’s sifting through a pile of clothes marked “$1 per item” (lucky me, it’s almost Christmas.)

There are a lot of benefits to having a junk-a-holic for a spouse. I have some beautiful vintage pins, a new stainless steel crock pot, a set of Bauer nesting mixing bowls, a vintage metal woodpecker that picks up toothpicks, and an oil painting of a blue robin's egg with a string of pearls. Our home decor is totally Anthropoligie vintage, only it's the real thing, not made in India and about one twelfth the price. I have some wonderful furniture that was incredibly inexpensive and that you won't find in any one else's house because it really is unique. My kids have My Little Pony, Barbie and Strawberry Shortcake dollhouses galore -- for cheap -- which is wonderful because they are the kind of bulky toys that get played with for six months and then take up way too much closet space.

The downsides: well, I'm home alone with the kids this morning, and Hubby left without his cell phone. I don't know when he'll be back. But what I do know is he'll be back with boxes full of stuff, which he'll spend lots of time today cleaning, sorting, gloating over. Our house is not big, but it houses lots of vintage treasures: under the bed, under the dresser, in the laundry room, and often on the kitchen floor. It's annoying, I'll be honest with you. Possibly most annoying, I'm usually allowed to keep his findings mainly when they are not valuable: like the chipped pottery too flawed for the true collector.

But Hubby truly is a champion garage-saler. He has an eye for the things that are actually valuable and turns it into profit on e-bay, Craig's list and at flea markets. Even items he's never heard of -- like the Lawnware plastic pots he bought that turned out to be a cult -item among the RV set -- he somehow can pluck from among the detritus of suburban clutter and see the potential. His endurance is unparalleled; sometimes it's only siren-level whining by both kids and myself that can make him stop.

And, bizzarley, it brings him a lot of joy. So, I support this passion. Look, Lance Armstrong's bride has to put up with a lot to be married to excellence and so do I.

My Husband is Spiderman

There's a great steamy scene in one of the Spiderman movies where Spidey rescues Mary Jane, and then she peels back his mask and kisses him in the rain while he's hanging upside down. Later in the saga, she's feeling a little blah about her real-life romance, and tries kissing her very nice fiance upside down while he sits on the couch, just to see if she can recreate the spark.

I always feel a little sad for the fiance in that scene. Even though he's a great looking, nice-mannered guy, there's no way he can compete, and not just because his rival is Spiderman. Kissing someone you've kissed one hundred times before is never going to give you the adrenaline rush that kissing a superhero with a secret identity -- upside down and in the rain no less -- is going to give you. That kind of thrill just usually ain't for the committed relationship folks.

Which is one of the reasons that I really love going camping with my husband. Because when we're camping, Jeff gets to be Spiderman. My domesticated man, who mainly divides his time between a desk job and pleasing the three females in our household, doesn't get to be his warrior self very often.

But when we go camping, he gets to do the man-versus-wild things that guys love. Not only does he have mad packing skills (the amount of gear he got into our car was truly a feat of modern engineering--see photo), but he can make fires, erect tents, lift heavy things, climb rocks, power and steer our kayak single-handedly, and all manner of masculine things that are fun for me to watch him do.

Our biggest thrill during our time in Pfieffer Big Sur camp ground was shooting the rapids in the river. Granted, the river is only about five feet at its deepest, and while we venture down the river, we often have to get out and wade, pulling our inflatable boats to deeper waters. But at the top of the campground is a series of pools, with boulders that form fast-flowing falls. Jeff set off on his own one afternoon armed with inner tube and paddle to ride in these dangerous waters. He came back elated.

We followed him up later that day to cheer him on. You can hear me screaming, "Go Spiderman!" on our home video. It was quite thrilling to watch him slalom through the rocks and dash down the rapids, and the heroism of it was only slightly diminished by the fact that I had pushed six-year-old Sophia down one of the same falls a few hours before.

So, out of a very fruitful family vacation, one of the best things I gleaned was that more adventure in my husband's life means more passion in our marriage. So I want to make sure he gets more manly outdoor experiences, especially on days that don't end with us sharing a tent with both our children. Because he is my super hero, and I don't want to forget it.

A Good Man

The mother of two little girls who are both under the age of seven, I already think about their wedding days -- all moms do, I think. And I'd like to state for the record that their father and I agree: if you don't want a big, traditional wedding and want a nice, inexpensive elopement, we're fine with that. We'd just like to be invited.

Eleven years ago today, I married my college sweetheart in a big traditional wedding: white dress, church, roses, champagne, cake cutting -- the whole princess package. I was just days away from turning 22. When I look at our wedding pictures, I first think, "Wow, I was skinny," and secondly, "Wow, we were young!"

My friends have heard me say this a lot before. I don't know how in the world I had the wisdom to choose this man; I was only 18 when I met him! I thank God for it. And I pray my girls will also get to marry a man that has brought them the same sense of safety and happiness that my husband has brought me. In case they want to read this someday: here are my top four favorite things about my husband, and qualities I hope they'll find in theirs.

1. Integrity. I can trust him. He's not going to lose his temper or slack off at work, cheat on our taxes, spend money we don't have, be unfaithful to me or generally do something that's going to jeopardize the health and safety of our family.

2. He's so stinking funny. We fall asleep laughing several nights a week. He keeps the girls in stitches. And he's the first person that taught me to laugh at myself.

3. He gives me the space and support to find fulfillment in my life, both inside and outside our home. If I have a ministry that I feel called to, he's the first to say, "Go for it!" He will watch the kids, offer me sound advice, and anything else it takes to make that happen. (He will even let me blog about him, though he is a much more private person than I am.) I hope I do the same for him.

4. He is still a hottie.

So happy anniversary to my sweetie. I hope our daughters pick a good man like you.