Monday, March 30, 2009

What it Means


When Daniel and I were first married, every night before bed, he'd ask me, "Did you lock the front door?"

I'd respond, "Yes."

Then he'd leave the bedroom, walk all the way down the hall, stop at the front door, and check to see if it was locked.

I'd fume inwardly (often for hours), "What does this mean? What does this mean about me?" And I concluded, "It means that my husband thinks I am an idiot. An irresponsible idiot. An irresponsible idiot who can't be trusted!"

A decade into our marriage, I'd mellowed out a bit. By then I'd learned that my husband has a detail-loving personality. I realized that his lock-checking routine doesn't mean anything about me, per say. So, instead of fuming, I became condescendingly tolerant. "It's just something he does, just the way he is," I told myself.

But recently, it finally hit me what it really means when Daniel double-checks the front door before bed.

A new friend and I were chatting about marriage. We howled with laughter as we discovered that both of our husbands are lock checkers. "It used to make me so mad!" she mused. "I thought it meant he didn't trust me to do the simplest task!"

While we've both outgrown our overreactions, we were still stymied by the question,"Why does he do it?" We pondered in silence; finally, one of us spoke, thoughtfully.

"What if it means that he loves me and the kids so much, he's making absolutely sure we're all safe?" It finally clicked: For two decades, my husband has been extra vigilant in caring for his family, making sure no harm can reach us during the night. That's just the way he is.

One thing I've learned is that I attach too much meaning to my husband's actions. And I'm usually wrong.

What it means, at least for me, is that I need to quit worrying about what he means and simply trust that his intentions are noble.

And maybe I'm finally learning what it means to love my husband just the way he is.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Already Missing


Annemarie turned 18 last Wednesday.

My baby turned 18!

I've known this day would come. The goal of mothering is to work myself out of a job, and I've calmly anticipated the inevitable.

Until this year.

In January, on a stressful day, Annemarie asked if we could run to Jamba Juice. "I'm too busy!" I protested. Then it struck me: in September, she heads to college. Only eight more months 'til I start missing all the mother/daughter stuff we do. I dropped my busy-ness; we jetted to Jamba Juice.

Last week, I missed celebrating Annemarie's birthday because she's been on a mission trip in Belize since March 19. I thought I'd be fine while she was gone, as I was busy speaking for a women's retreat.

But throughout the weekend, I missed my constant companion. Annemarie always sets up my book table ("Stay away, Mum; you'll mess it up!") She fusses over me ("You haven't eaten since breakfast! Go eat!") And she's my biggest cheerleader ("You sure had them listening and laughing, Mum!")

And by Wednesday, I was missing my daughter something fierce. For all my bravado ("Your bedroom becomes my new craft room!") I didn't realize how much I depend on calling out, "Hey Chickie!?" and hearing back "Yeah, Mum?" Or how much I rely on Annemarie being a text message away. She's been gone for just ten days, and ohhhh, how I miss my "baby"!

Annemarie returns home Monday evening, and I can't wait to welcome her back. As soon as she's caught up on sleep, we'll head to Jamba Juice so she can tell me about everything I missed.

And then I'll blink: it'll be May 31, and I'll get misty-eyed at "Pomp and Circumstance." Then I'll blink again: it'll be mid-September, and I'll be over-staying my welcome in her dorm room.

I wouldn't have missed the last 18 years for anything in the world. And for the next few months, I'm going to do my best not to miss a thing.

Annemarie's may not leave 'til September, but one thing I've learned is that a part of me -- of my heart -- goes with her.

And that part of my heart is already missing.