Feel my withered roots begin to grow

In January, 2008, my husband flew from London – where we were living – to Los Angeles – where we were moving.  It was a house-hunting trip.  He was going to narrow down neighborhoods, visit preschools, and scope out cars, as we had sold ours before moving.  I trusted him because I had to – someone had to stay in London with the boys.  But he also knows me and my requirements, and I trusted that he would look for a walkable area with good air, a preschool that could serve our kids well, and a car with low gas mileage.

When he came back from the trip, he was filling me in as we stood in the kitchen of our little London rental while our two boys watched television.

“Santa Monica has good air, but it’s pricey.  Plus, it can get touristy in the summer.”

“OK, what about Brentwood?”

“Brentwood is nice, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“I think I need to take a pregnancy test in a few days.”

Without missing a beat, without so much as catching his breath, despite the fact that we had always planned on two children, he replied, “Well, then we aren’t getting a Prius.”

***

Six months earlier, he had looked at my body and commented, “You know, from the waist up, you’re thinner than you’ve ever been.”

***

Yesterday, I came downstairs to work while my husband was still sleeping.  I read my email and then worked for an hour.  Lilah woke up and I went up to shower with her in the room while J came down to feed Zach.  As I closed the bathroom door, I said, “My agent dumped me.”

I wasn’t interested in hearing his sympathy yesterday morning, but by mid-afternoon, I was ready to talk.  I called him.  “I don’t think it’s time for me to look for a job,” I said.  “What we’re doing is working.  I’m not making a lot of money, but I’m here for the kids.”

“I think that’s right,” he replied.  “Whether or not you sell the book, you are publishing.”

“But it’s going to mean we keep making the sacrifices we’re making, with you doing a lot of childcare and housework so that I have time to write.  You have to be sure you really want this, because it means you have to keep supporting my writing even though we’re not getting much money out of it.”

“I understand that,” he said.  “But since we’re not hiring any extra childcare for it, any money you do bring in is bonus.  If you were in a job, most of the money would go to childcare, anyway”

Sometimes, the man steps in it, but when it counts, he knows exactly what to say.

You’ll need to click over to see the video, but it’s worth it.

Global positioning

Just a note to let my husband know that, in the future, if I should be driving into Manhattan (along routes I don’t know well because we just moved here to this very far suburb) with both boys to attend a birthday party in that begins at an apartment and ends at the circus, after which I will be leaving with two very tired children, and I ask if we can switch cars, it might – it just might – behoove you to mention to me that you have set your GPS to exclude all highways so that I don’t find myself exploring every tiny little back road of New Jersey.

That is all.

Eight years, four cities, three kids, and 627 pancakes

          We have these friends who, every month, celebrate their monthiversary together.  They go out every single month for the same cuisine they had on their very first date.  For the last ninety-two months.  It’s very romantic, in a Visa commercial kind of way. 

            It’s also pretty funny for those of us here in the cheap seats.

            You see, I cannot imagine actually going out with my husband once a month.  Hell, I’d settle for being in the same city once a year on our anniversary.  Or maybe every other year; no sense aiming too high.

            My favorite was 2004, our third anniversary. I was five months pregnant with Zachary, and I had bleeding the night before, so the doctor had me stay overnight in the hospital as a precaution.  Hence, I spent my third anniversary in a hospital room in Philly while my husband was stranded on a business trip in Nevada.  It was sort of like a candlelit dinner except with crappy food, fluorescent lights, and a monitor on my belly.

            I am supposed to be upset that we are not together for our anniversary, according to Them, whomever They might be.  But, pray tell, at whom shall I get upset?  My husband, who is away from his family, working late nights, in order to support us?  Or perhaps the structure of corporate America?  Or maybe the clients who have the gall to be located at a distance?

            Truth be told, I am not upset.  Romance is not hinged on some arbitrary date that is only our anniversary by the standards of the Gregorian calendar, which anyway is off by something like 26 seconds each year.  Who cares if we are not together each year on the 20^th of May? 

            Romance is J hanging out the wash, even though he would rather use the drier, because I want to conserve electricity.  Romance is him taking my car to be washed because he knows I will never get around to it and it hasn’t rained in Los Angeles since three days after the Spanish Inquisition.  Romance is putting on a new toilet lid that does not bang down before our au pair arrived because he doesn’t want her to wake me up if she uses the bathroom in the night.  Most of all, romance is still laughing together, albeit mostly at our children.

            J will tell you I am the least sentimental person out there.  He, on the other hand, cries at Kleenex commercials (and every time he watches An Officer and a Gentleman).  I think this post proves the contrary. Clearly, I am totally the mawkish type, oozing the schmaltz all over the internet.

            So, happy anniversary, honey.  We made it past the seven-year itch.  Don’t forget to call the cable company.