What I Failed to Accomplish This Year

Well, my children have four days left in the school year, and I'm sure they have learned a lot. But when it comes to their mother, I can't say that she is really better off as a mother of elementary school students than she was in September. You may consider this entry as the follow up to one I wrote in September which began...

I flunked Kindergarten the first time so they are making me repeat it. 

In it I detailed the ways in which I failed to be a responsible parent of a kindergartener the first time. I don't think I substantially improved. And yet I feel totally at peace with myself in this regard. 

From where I sit now in the drop down desk in my sunny yellow kitchen, I can see the okra yellow reading log, on which I am supposed to date and chronicle every 20-minute reading period I do daily with Olivia, my kindergartner. It is June 14th. And it is still blank. I came up with a good system of keeping it on the fridge, down low where Olivia could reach it, and I didn't lose one the whole year. However, neither did I ever have one completed until the night before it was due; in fact, I falsified a lot of them by looking at the books on Olivia's shelf for ideas of book titles. I did read to her, as much as she wanted. But not 20 minutes a day. (I have a theory that forcing kids to be read to when they do not want to be read to and are creatively playing in their rooms makes them less likely to love books, not more likely.) And though Liv can reach her log, she didn't write on it once. 

I never established a regular homework routine. And yet we did turn in her homework on time all but twice. 

I never did start the habit of making the kids lunches the night before school, nor did I learn to enjoy preparing them in the morning. But I did write a catchy little song that goes "I hatey the lunchy but I make it, I make it," which I sing several mornings a week. 

I didn't clean out the kids backpacks regularly. But I did train them (finally! in May!) to empty their lunch boxes and put them away every day. Almost. 

I didn't always remember to pack Olivia her water bottle. And yet she has not suffered from dehydration once. 

I sent Sophia to school a couple of times to buy her lunch and she didn't have money in her cafeteria account. But they let her eat anyway, and I paid it back fairly quickly.  

I volunteered the classroom once a week. Kind of. I missed a whole month due to illness. I had to cancel several to go to doctor's appointments or speak at MOPS groups, and a few times I forgot to call ahead. But the reading groups seemed to continue and the teachers still smile at me and apparently don't think I'm the worst parent in the world. 

All these things I have flubbed, failed at, and faked my way through and the glorious fact is that the world did not come to an end. My children are still alive and learning things. In fact, what both my girls' teachers tell me is that they are happy, confident, well-liked children; Olivia's teacher told me her love of learning has exploded this spring, despite not getting 20 minutes a day of reading (the teachers do not know this; again, I lied on the reading log). 

It's wonderfully freeing to know that all the things I wish I was doing better are not actually essential to being a pretty good mom. And I'm not sure, but I think this attitude is good for my kids to observe. 

Back when Sophia was in preschool, I forgot to show up to a kindergarten readiness assembly until it was almost over. I came flying through the door and the preschool director spotted me, sensed my distress and put her arm around me. "It's okay to make mistakes," she said. I was 30 years old and don't think anyone had ever said that to me; or perhaps I just never heard it. But I remember thinking "I'm glad my little girl goes to school here." And it was kind of a turning point for me. If I'm not trying to be the perfect mom, my kids are free from needing to be perfect too. 

Not that I'm perfect at not trying to be perfect. I'm my own harshest critic in other ways, as just about every mother in the world is, or in my world at least. 

But I've come a long way in my quest toward imperfectionism. I'm getting better at not always needing to get better.

Next year, I will have a first grader and a fourth grader. No more early childhood parenting for me. Homework is about to get crazy in fourth grade I hear. I may need to establish more routines. Perhaps next year I'll be more organized. 

Or perhaps I won't. I'm looking forward to seeing how I do.

 

The Model is Dying for a Cake Pop and Our Feet Are Killng Us

This is me on Tuesday night, in the hills above Las Vegas, Nevada

See how I look carefree and put together?

I'm not.

Twenty minutes before this picture was taken I was skittering through an outdoor mall in 94-degree heat and four-and-a-half inch heels looking for a pair of earrings. Toes screaming, praying that I don't sweat on my dress. The chunky silver earrings I had sought and purchased 10 days earlier had been left on my dresser in California. In the first store I entered, the saleswoman said, "I sense a woman on a mission." In the second store, I found a knockoff of the California earrings for half the price.

An hour before this photo was taken, I was telling my poor husband -- who had traveled by airplane with me that morning to Nevada in order to attend a posh, fashion-themed fundraiser in a house he helped design -- that he had to go without me. Because my silk dress (pictured) had a do-not-iron label but was hopelessly wrinkled. So I ironed it anyway, through a pillowcase. And scorched the bodice. Eventually, in despair, I tied the bow up higher and got in the car. 

Three hours before this, I was in the hotel salon, asking them to fix the nail on my middle finger that had chipped. 

Six hours before this I was watching my open cosmetics case go down the conveyor belt in airport security and marveling at how many products I had packed to make my face and hair look good. And thinking about how my husband had packed just his razor and a bottle of Lubriderm lotion. 

Twenty-eight hours before this I was having my nails professionally painted. 

Three days before this I was making myself the fabric clutch you see under my left arm, because if you can't buy designer, but can make boho-chic, well, go for it. 

Ten days before this I was buying this dress in the sixth store I had been tried dresses on in (it's from Anthropologie, by the way, on sale). 

All this work and worry for this moment of walking into a party on my husband's arm and feeling that I could pass for fashionable. 

It was a spectacular party, for a beautiful crowd of forward-thinking, fashion forward, big-hearted philanthropists, raising money to help hungry children in their county.  But I'm honest: it's an intimidating crowd for a mostly stay-at-home mom who generally feels dressed up if she has white jeans and a new pair of flip flops on. Hence all the careful preparation on my part. 

There was not a woman in the room who did not look stunning, and not just the models posed around the gorgeous house. But I saw the guests a little differently than I expected to. I sensed -- or perhaps only imagined -- vulnerability behind all that gorgeousness, especially in the women my age or younger. A rigidity of posture to ensure their dress draped right, their plunging neckline didn't plunge too far. The cautiousness of their steps in their high heels that were surely killing them. Maybe they hadn't been desperately searching the jewelry rotunda an hour earlier like I had, but not one of them had arrived there without a lot of effort. 

And I felt, as I stood there, that my husband had been right (as usual). I had been kind of worked up over nothing. I wasn't really any different than anyone else in the room. Even the  models, who were, after all, just women who make it their business to look amazing, and work really hard at it. Two of whom were posed on a chaise in the "dessert lounge" with sweets in their hands, for the benefit of guests who might could sit and pretend to be models themselves. See me at right. 

One of them said they liked my dress. The other asked me to taste the cake pop perched in a mini martini glass of chocolate mouse in my hand, because she couldn't eat hers until she was off duty. "Tell me how it is," she said. "I like to bake those, but I don't like the ones at Starbucks."

One amazing chocolate mousse martini and one mini key lime meringue later (and okay, also a pb&j cheesecake square and a strawberry shortcake shot (held below, which is why I look so happy), I was standing in the valet line watching as one woman after another started taking off their shoes and sighing. Including me. Suddenly, I was just one of the girls. 

And I recalled, standing there in the dessert dark, a story my best friend from college once told me. She was going to a wedding, where she would see friends she hadn't been with in a while. She was a new mother, and so of course dealing with new-mother body issues. So she searched for weeks for the right dress to wear, obsessed about it even; and eventually spent a little more money than she should have. And then she got to the wedding and it began to rain. Hard. Every single guest was given a black trash bag to pull over their head and wear like a poncho. She felt like she was being divinely punished for her vanity. 

For my part, I think God was maybe being funny rather than punitive, if the rain had anything to do with my friend at all. There's certainly a lesson there, not to place too much stock in what we wear or how we look, because, as the Good Book says, beauty is fleeting. Dresses scorch. Earrings get left behind. And as far as competing with other women, it's much more fun to stand at the party and realize we're all on the same team.  The girl you think looks great next to you might have been hysterical over her hair only 15 minutes earlier. The model might be dying for a cake pop. All our feet are killing us. 

And me, well, I'm wearing my only slightly-damaged dress to a summer wedding. 

I might even look carefree and put together in it.

The Universe Demands a Co-Pay

I am not a superstitious person, but a part of me believes that the only way to get well from a long virus is to pay a $40 co-pay so the doctor can tell you there's nothing seriously wrong with you.

I caught a cold on Good Friday (March 29th?) and on April 6th I began to think I should be checked out. I debated internally, processed externally with my BFF, and annoyed my husband with the back and forth over it. It's not just that I can think of lots of things I would rather do with $40 and two hours than go to the doctor. It's that being told there's nothing wrong with me or there's nothing they can do makes me feel like a loser.

Since Monday I felt like I might die or never breathe through my nose again, on Tuesday, yesterday, I went to the nurse practitioner. And was told, of course, that I was in a gray area. No pneumonia or bronchitis, not even yet a sinus infection. I went to Mother's Market and bought the suggested homeopathic sinus medicine and a booger-busting juice made with carrots, ginger and cayenne pepper (afterwards, I felt that I could not only breath through my nose, but also through my eyeballs).

I, then, of course, began to feel better. This morning, I feel even better. Why is this? Is it psychological, knowing that I am not dying and I have a prescription of for an antibiotic in my purse just in case? Is it the sinus remedy? Was I just about to get better anyway?

Or was it, perhaps, that the virus gods demand the $40 sacrifice?

When Sophia was a toddler, she fell and hit her chin on a wooden pier pylon on Christmas Eve, and had a piece of wood embedded in her chin. At Easter, it was still in there. The pediatrician ($40 later) gave me a referral to the dermatologist, which I held on to for two more months (a "specialist" was $75!). Finally I took her in, preparing both of us for a possible extraction with stitches. Doctor said that eventually, the wood would work itself out of her skin. The NEXT DAY, it came out. The gods wanted $75 that time. Seriously, what is that about?

One of my dear friends and I spend probably an inordinate amount of time on the phone trying to decide what is wrong (physically) with our children or ourselves, and whether it is worth the (a) money, (b) time, and (c) exposure to other illnesses to go to the doctor's office. These conversations usually take place on Day 8 of the illness (the time when as a mom, you are basically just really sick of being sick or having your kids be sick).

It's an identity issue for us: Am I a Paranoid/Impatient/Irrational Mom if I go to the doctor? Am I a Bad/Lax/Careless/Cheap Mom if I don't? All my control issues bubble up to the surface. Many of my irrational fears. With every cough-induced sleepless night, my rational mind gets foggier, aided by full doses of NyQuil.

It's gotten to the point that I think perhaps what we really need is a psychologist. But that's like $150 an hour, and what does it say about me if I need that? I'll agonize about it for a few days and let you know.

I Brought the Awesome

What is it with me and bringing party snacks to school?

I woke at 6 a.m. and remembered that I was signed up to bring 12 bags of popped popcorn to Olivia's "Spring Party" for kindergarten. (Side note: American five and six year olds have more fun than any other people on earth. Today will be the first of three Easter Egg hunts that my child will partake in over the next three days. And I won't let her eat half the candy or keep half the toys. Mean mommy.)

On cupboard inspection, I find I do not have any popcorn in the house. Nor do I have coffee. I drink tea (yuck), then  I decide to take the girls out for bagels on the way to school and buy bagged popcorn at the grocery store. Problem: the grocery store does not carry individually bagged popcorn. In fact, our local Ralphs doesn't carry any kind of popped popcorn at all, so my idea of frantically bagging it in the car with the sandwich baggies  I brought with me wouldn't work either.

So, with exactly 18 minutes until the start of school, I buy bagels, hand them to kids in back seat, drive very quickly (but safely) home, leave kids in car port with radio on (quickly detach house keys from car keys to do so) and microwave popcorn. Guess on cooking time because have somehow bought popcorn with instructions only in Spanish on the bag. Have forgotten all Spanish from college minor because too early and too tired.

Text pastor/boss while waiting; load dishes in dishwasher. Microwave beeps two minutes later; throw second bag in microwave. Shove steaming popcorn into plastic bags. Bags get slightly softer but don't actually melt. Remember to wash hands half way through (please don't tell room mom or other parents). One kid comes in from the car to go to the bathroom. Second kid comes in from the car and says first kid said she would be back in 30 seconds but she has now counted to 39, where is big sister? Microwave beeps again. Though second bag cooked exact same amount of time as first,  half is burnt. Stuff last four bags with least scorched pieces of popcorn.

Come out to car and both kids are not in seat belts. Yell at kids. Drive very fast (still safely) to school and show up just in time with the scent of scorched popcorn and desperation wafting from unwashed hair. Another mom tells me I smell good. Love her. Exhale.

Meanwhile, in the kindergarten line, other kids are hopping around Olivia. What did you bring Olivia? What did you bring? Is it Easter eggs? No, it's popcorn. Popcorn? Hurray! Hurray! Popcorn! Hurray for Olivia.

Uh, hurray for mommy. But whatever, they are happy.

On my much slower walk back to the car, I am almost run over by a junior higher on a skateboard. On his shirt is printed, "I brought the awesome. What did you bring?"

Well, buddy, I brought the half-scorched popcorn in half-melted baggies. And I feel pretty awesome too.

Off to get a cup of coffee.

I Stink at Lent

I had a lofty goal for the Lenten season. I gave up shopping for anything besides groceries. 

No seasonal home decor. No new clothes for myself or the girls. No sewing supplies. No plants for the garden. The one exception was buying my daughters new Easter shoes, because last year's won't fit on their feet and as holy as I was planning to be, I was not willing that my daughters should wear sneakers on Easter Sunday. 

People's reactions were interesting. 

"What about paper towels and toilet paper?" my women's pastor asked. Yes on toilet paper, no on paper towels.

"What about my baby shower?" my friend who is pregnant with twins asked. Don't worry, dear, I already bought everything for your invitations.

"Can you still meet me at the mall, because I want to shop for shoes?" my best friend asked.

"You'll never make it," said my mother. 

And my mother, as usual, was right. I didn't make it. 

Five days into my extreme sacrifice, my husband put paper towels in our Target shopping cart. I bought the girls Easter shoes, but also bathing suits, because we had a warm spell and last season's were literally transparent when wet. And I ran out of envelopes for my friend's baby shower. I did not, however, buy any shoes with my BFF at Macy's that night. But I did buy shoes eventually.

While shopping for Easter shoes for the kids, I "popped in" to TJ Maxx/Home Goods (my dark, discounted master), where it turns out they don't even carry children's shoes. While there, I bought a dress to wear to  my husband's 20th high school reunion this summer ("It's so cheap and if I wait til summer, they won't have summer dresses left!") And I bought a pair of shoes with my husband's permission (same excuse as the above) and he said I could just wait until after Easter to wear them. 

And then, while I was in TJ Maxx returning the wrong size of said shoes, I bought my mother an entire new spring wardrobe for the tune of about $300. She came to my house and tried on all of it, kept most of it, and wrote me a check. 

And then after all these rationalizations and compromises, I just went to Joann's and bought all the supplies I "needed" and then felt really guilty.

I may have a shopping problem. 

The reason I gave up shopping for Lent, was (1) because I like the idea of sacrifice as a means to focus myself spiritually in preparation for the most important holiday as a Christian, and to remember Jesus supreme sacrifice on the cross. And (2) because I want the sacrifice to be a meaningful spiritual discipline that will change me in the long term. I spend of lot of time running errands and  returning things, and I desired a sense of freedom from that circular habit. What would it mean for my life to live with less, and to rely on God for the emotional lift that buying stuff (our national pass time!) gives me?

But I blew it. It was way too hard. However, it taught me a valuable lesson about the way I relate to God. 

This weekend, our pastor Kenton Beshore gave a wonderful sermon on practicing religion versus having a relationship with God. He said that the human default in relating to God is religion: a system of rules and rituals that tells us what to do, how to be a "good" person, and how to get closer to God through our own effort. The problem with religion, he said, is two fold. 

Problem one: If you succeed at following all the rules, you get prideful, make the whole thing about you instead of God, and start judging other people who can't work as hard or be as "holy" as you are. This was Jesus main problem with the religious leaders of his day, whom he reprimanded more than any one else he spoke to (he called them "a brood of vipers" among other nasty things). They were externally holy about following religious rites, but they lacked mercy, compassion, humility and love. 

Problem two: If you fail at following the rules, you end up rationalizing and compromise the rules until they no longer have any real value ("The law isn't 'don't lie', it's 'Only lie if you really have to, and then feel badly about it.'").  Then, you spiral into guilt and shame, and either shrink away from God because you feel unworthy, or drop religion altogether because guilt turns to anger and resentment toward God and the church. This was the problem for the "sinners" in Jesus' day; they were outside the holy community of religious people, but God's message to them was to repent and simply follow him. He called them friends.

Boy, do I see Kenton's point. If I had succeeded at the "no shopping" season, I would have felt really proud of myself, and probably would have told people about it. Like, "I'm not wearing a new dress on Easter today because I gave up shopping for Lent." There's no way I would have kept that quiet. 

But since I blew it so completely, I did not achieve spiritual and mental freedom, as I hoped, but got tangled up in a lot of rationalization. "See I bought that dress for the reunion, but I won't wear it for Easter, even though it would be perfect for Easter; so that's actually the greater sacrifice. To have it, to know it's right there in the closet, but to not be able to wear it." 

My relationship with God really suffered when I was in this kind of accounting mentality; I would pray and ask forgiveness for breaking my Lent vow, but then I would still want to make myself right with Jesus by earning my way back into His good graces. How ludicrous, that I, by some effort or negotiation, could mirror the sacrifice of Jesus' life.

And there, right there, is the great gift that my "failed" Lent ritual gave me. I don't have to earn my way into God's good graces because God's grace is good. Religion is an accounting system (and y'all know how I hate accounting), and we default to it because we know we are in God's debt. In some translations, sin = debt. "Forgive us our debts, Lord, as we forgive our debtors," we pray as Jesus taught us. But the great transaction has been made. Jesus paid the whole debt. All of it, so I could be His friend. So I could walk with him in freedom. He has balanced the spiritual checkbook for me. How grateful I am! 

During the last 30-some days, I got lost and tangled in religion. But in other ways, I walked with Jesus. Jeff and I have had some wonderful times in relationships with people we love and care about in the last month. I've heard God's voice about what He wants me to do with my life when my current ministry position is over, and I have a profound sense of purpose and peace. I brought my daughter to a prayer service and witnessed her ask for prayer to be a better big sister (the tears come again just remembering it). We've brought some new friends to church with us (how we love them!), and we've seen other new friends in our small group get baptized. None of these beautiful experiences have come from trying hard to be religious, but simply following the tug in our hearts to do what Jesus would. 

So I'm celebrating Easter with a full heart this weekend. And I'm wearing my new outfit rather than being holy and sacrificial by leaving it in my closet. I wear it in celebration: I didn't measure up this month, but my debt has been paid.

Unless The Bush Is Burning, Say No

Growing up in Sunday school, there was one thing -- at least -- that I got wrong. 

Many times did I learn the story of Moses hearing God's voice from the burning bush, telling him to go back into Egypt and free the Hebrew people from Pharaoh. Moses has multiple objections, but his main one is that he is not qualified. He is not a good speaker, and therefore not the guy to walk into the court of the most powerful nation in the world and start making speeches and demands. 

God's response is hard to argue with.  

“Who gave human beings their mouths? Who makes them deaf or mute? Who gives them sight or makes them blind? Is it not I, the Lord?  Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.” (Exodus 4:11-12)

What I took away from this story was inaccurate: When God asks me to serve Him, it will be hard, not something I want to do, and probably the thing I am not very good at. But He will make me good at it through His own power. Some pieces of this are true, but not completely.

It was due to this mistaken reasoning that I volunteered to be the Daisy Girl Scout Cookie Manager for my daughter's troop of 16 girls.

A Cookie Manager's job is to order cookies, distribute cookies, keep accounting of all the packages their troop sells, collect all the money, and balance the accounts at the end. In our case, that meant keeping track of 2,268 packages of cookies. Why did I think I was capable of doing this? I do not know how to balance our checkbook. Truly. I'm not even sure I can count. I have extreme math anxiety (it tops the list of my phobias which include vomiting and going to the dentist).

When I told my husband I took this job, he looked at me like I was crazy. And I was!

Ordering, picking up and distributing cookies was lots of fun, actually. I like people. I liked meeting all our troop's moms and having them move through my house-turned-warehouse. I even kind of liked how my neighbors started calling me the crack dealer, as they saw lots of mysterious boxes going out and envelopes of cash coming in. 

But I did not like how I could almost never answer our troop leader's questions about procedure, our current balance box balance, or how much money had come in without making a mistake. I literally lost sleep. I probably would have lost weight too if I hadn't had all these blasted cookies lying around.

And the low point was the afternoon I spent four hours at the kitchen table with my spread  sheet and my orange "Cookie Time!" Girl-Scout-issued calculator in accounting hell trying to get the sheet to balance. All my formulas got messed up (should I mention that I also don't know how to use Excel?). I forgot what I was even trying to accomplish. I called my husband in tears and he had to come home early from work to bail me out.

There are definitely times that God calls us to do things that are outside our skill set. But what I believe as an adult which I didn't understand as a child, is that more often God asks me to do things that are difficult, but also things that I am gifted at. They challenge me, they make me uncomfortable, they help me grow, but they are not totally outside my wheelhouse. 

This is the influence of studying the New Testament, where God says that I am given spiritual gifts when I believe in Him, which I should use to glorify God, lift up the people who love him, and help restore the world to Shalom. In fact, the apostle Paul teaches that we should embrace the fact that there are some things we are good at and some things we aren't good at, and we should not wish we had someone else's (see 1 Corinthians Chapter 12). 

As it turned out, I didn't do such a bad job. Out of over 2,000 boxes of cookies, I only lost track of about six. And our troop collected more than enough money to cover what we checked out; we made profits like crazy.  I took some of the time burden off our troop leaders. But I did not bring them shalom. All three of them are great with numbers; one has an uncanny ability to remember lists of figures; another is just pretty darn meticulous about everything. So having someone who was less capable than they were handling this big task stressed them out! I probably would have brought them more peace had I  been less candid about my insecurities, but that's not really my style. (Subject for another blog.) 

People who hate numbers should not volunteer for accounting positions. Just like people who can't carry a tune shouldn't be worship pastors. Or try out for American Idol. Let people who are good at those things do them!

Here's what I now understand about Moses: He was a prophet, and in ways, an exception to the serve-in-your-giftedness rule. God spoke to him directly and chose to use him to pull off the rescue of millions of people. In Moses' weakness, God's strength was shown. 

But God did not appear in a burning bush to me and say, "It's is not I that gives people their mathematics ability? Go and be the Cookie Manager and I will teach you how to use Excel." He didn't even whisper it quietly, the way He speaks to me often, that He wanted me to serve my daughter and her friends in this way. I just jumped in my own, and kept at it though I had opportunities early on to graciously get out, but was too prideful or stupid to do so. 

God did get to show Himself strong in my weakness, however. When I sent the balance sheet to one of our leaders, she e-mailed, "Is it appropriate to thank God for this?" Uh, yes. And I have. He pulled off a daring accounting rescue on my behalf for sure. 

And I learned a lot, not just about the inner working of Girl Scouts Orange County, but also about myself, relationships, and a bit about Excel. And also, that my husband is an incredibly patient person who should definitely continue to be in charge of our checkbook.

Most importantly, I learned that God is gracious. He wants me to spend time on the things I am passionate about and that bring me joy, not just the things that stress me out or scare me. Within the tasks that God has called me to do there are enough challenges, without taking on things that He hasn't asked of me. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to ceremoniously smash my orange calculator, and eat a cookie. And here's official notice to my sweet Daisy troop: unless the bush in my backyard is burning, I won't be doing this again next year. Cookie Manager, out.





 

I'd Marry Him Again

Hubby and I thought hard about what to give each other for Valentine's Day. I wiped out the refrigerator and put away empty milk bottles (that have been sitting on the counter for weeks), and he came home early from work. True love people, true true love. 

a friend's facebook posting on February 14, 2013

This December my husband and I got to spend a long weekend in Las Vegas without our kids. We were at such a happy place in our relationship, and I was so excited to be getting on an airplane for a getaway with my man, that I had the urge to do some grand gesture to express my love for him. Like, something crazy. And what I kept thinking was, "We should go get married!" 

I listen to a lot of country music. And in country music, when you're madly in love, you run off to Vegas and get hitched.  (How did the whole getting-married-in-Vegas thing start? Because as it stands now, Las Vegas is definitely not geared toward helping people stay married. I mean, the strip clubs, ample ways to lose the family fortune, not to mention an ad campaign that endorsed adultery. But I digress.) 

I am a fan of grand and crazy gestures. At the risk of sounding like a De Beers diamond commercial, I'd like to show Jeff that I'd marry him all over again. But what I have discovered is that marriage is not really built for that. Or perhaps my marriage isn't, having married an architect, which means my spouse's mind is one part creative and one part engineer, but all parts definitely have their place, time, and prudent duration. 

When I expressed to Jeff my wild desire to get married in a Vegas chapel (I would have done it, truly!), the idea didn't exactly melt his butter (sorry, more country music influence there).  I made him drive me to the seedy side of Vegas to take a picture at a chapel for this blog, and that actually seemed quite lame to him. But he did it, God bless him. Here's proof: us at the Chapel of the Flowers; note the 7-11 sign right above the roof line. This was my husband's love gift to me: taking me to do something that he thought was kind of stupid. While smiling.

In our actual wedding 13 and a half years ago, not a spontaneous event but a traditional church affair that took nine months to plan, we picked Phillippians 2:1-4 for our pastor to speak on. I, at age 21, was focused on certain phrases in the passage:  being like-minded, being of the same love, being one in spirit, concepts which sounded both practical and romantic. 

My pastor, being actually married, focused on phrases in the same scripture like looking to the interests of others instead of just your own; he said this would be played out when the dishes were dirty and the baby was crying, we were both tired, and we both had to get up and go to work in the morning. 

He was right. These are the other love gifts in our marriage: I do the dishes, the grocery shopping; I cook food he likes; I book the baby sitter (or grandparent) for date night once a month. He takes out the trash; he pays the bills (after making the money) and balances the checkbook; he puts the kids to bed so I can go to a 7 p.m. Zumba class. 

This is how marriage works, not just for us, but for everyone. I reference my friend's  facebook post, above. She has five biological kids, and a foster child, last time I checked. I would imagine she and her husband show love to one another every day by working together to stem the chaos to which their lives could easily succumb. They are choosing -- and this is the key -- to see these small chores as the love tokens that they are.

And yet, it can't all be taking out the trash and cleaning the fridge. We need romantic gestures, too. I offered Jeff a back scratch on Valentine's Day evening and he looked so surprised and pleased that I was ashamed of myself. In his vows to me in our wedding he talked about how much he appreciated back rubs, and in my housewifely fatigue, I have sorely neglected him in favor of lying down flat on the couch and watching American Idol. He'd probably rather I left the dishes, conserved my energies, and gave him a neck rub. 

I want to love my spouse. Really love him. I want us to feel in love, and express it to each other. Perhaps this is why I listen to so much country music. No other musical genre devotes so much ink to marital love. Here's a piece of my current favorite country song by Lady Antebellum (download it on itunes. It's so good!). I dedicate it to my husband, who doesn't usually read my blog and would be embarrassed if he did. But I like romantic gestures, remember? And my man knew that going in. So this one's for you, baby, just a bit late for Valentine's Day. We're still meant to be.

I leave him sleeping as I rise early
Always up before the dawn
The house is dark, but I see clearly
Kettle sings a morning song
The bacon's frying, babies crying
I soak up the sights and sounds
Minutes turn to days and I wish that I could slow it down

If grease is the soul of the kitchen
And coffee the drink of the gods
Routine too perfect to mention
Time is a thief I would rob
We're meant to be, baby, hold onto me
I'll never not be your girl
'Cause love is the heart of the world

Oh, and hope is the soul of the dreamer
And heaven is the home of my God
It only takes one true believer
To believe you can still beat the odds

We're meant to be baby hold onto me
You'll never not be my girl (I'll never not be your girl)
'Cause love is the heart, love is the heart,
Love is the heart of the world