Recently, Sheepdog had an appointment at the dentist for his 6-month cleaning. I always encourage him to give out his own email and phone number for those kinds of things because I do not keep his schedule during the week and I have enough people to coordinate without adding him to the mix. For whatever reason, I was receiving all of the text, email, phone, and voice mail messages with regard to this particular appointment, and to make for even more notifications, Sheepdog has apparently maxed out his dental benefits for the calendar year and they wanted to confirm that he knew this cleaning would be out-of-pocket.
October 19, 11:10 AM – TEXT MESSAGE (incoming) “Joshua has an appointment with the dentist on 11/9/21 at 8:00 AM. Questions? Call phone number. Please note, all patients are asked to wear a mask/face covering when in the office. Txt STOP to opt-out from automated msgs”
November 3, 1:11 PM – TEXT MESSAGE (incoming) “Text C to confirm appt for Joshua on 11/9/21 at 8 AM with the dentist. Text R to reschedule. Questions? Call phone number. Please note, all patients are asked to wear a mask/face covering when in the office. Txt STOP to opt-out from automated msgs”
November 4, 11:54 AM – MISSED CALL Dentist
November 4, 11:55 AM – VOICEMAIL Transcription “Good morning this is the dentist giving you a call um Joshua has an appointment with us at 8 AM on November 9 next Tuesday un this appointment will be out of pocket you still get a discounted rate with your insurance but I was calling to let you know please give me a call back at phone number thank you”
November 4, 11:55 AM – TEXT MESSAGE (outgoing) to Sheepdog:
And, yes, Sheepdog has a black eye in that picture. It is from jujitsu, not from me.
I am still bored, but I am clearly not ready to get a real job yet.
I was recently reminded by Kid C of a statement I made about a year ago at a December 2019 family birthday party for one of my youngest nieces. Until she mentioned it, I had completely forgotten that it happened. Now I feel like Lucy Ricardo and I’ve got some ‘splaining to do. But first, a flashback…
It was the fall of 1985 in southern, coastal New Jersey. I was just about to turn 15 years old and one of my birthday presents was the privilege of tagging along on a weekend sailing trip with my dad, my uncle, and each of their best friends. I was naive enough to go out on a 27′ sailboat in the Atlantic Ocean and have little to no idea of how to actually sail a boat, how to navigate, or what safety procedures to follow in a crisis. Ah, the joys of teenage invincibility. The five of us left port out of Toms River and headed out of the bay into the big, blue sea.
Except for may dad, my house at the time was occupied by all women – my mom and three little sisters, as well as my grandmother and my aunt and their female dog, so I was really excited to spend the weekend with dudes who were doing dude things… smoking cigars and drinking alcohol and then the inevitable imparting of their wisdom and life lessons. To this teenage girl who was floundering around and trying to figure things out, I could think of no better, drama-free way to spend a weekend.
I don’t recall many specifics from the bulk of the trip, but I have great memories of watching these influential men in my life sail the boat, prepare and serve meals and drinks, and interact with one another. I felt so much support from them as they gave advice on how to navigate friendships, family, boys, and life in general. On our final Sunday afternoon leg back toward the marina, I recall feeling really grounded and so very loved and protected. I was confident and ready to take on the world!
Suddenly, and practically without any warning, a huge squall popped up in the middle of the ocean. Driving rain, swirling winds, and very rough seas prevented any of us onboard from seeing beyond our own extended arms. It was all hands on deck to batten down the hatches, or whatever real sailors do to keep their passengers, crew, and boat safe in that situation. I ended up on the bow of the boat, my hands gripping the pulpit tightly as I stared this monster storm right in the face, and I smiled right at her. I didn’t have any actual sailing skills and I figured I’d just be in the way, so I went where I thought I’d be the least underfoot. It was so loud and wet and incredibly scary but also invigorating as the boat rose and then fell upon the waves over and over and over again. I felt like I was at one with the upheaval and the feeling was powerful. Those moments of pure adrenaline coursing through me while still relishing in the safety cocoon that had been established over the past few days will stick with me forever. I felt so alive!
Then, as quickly as it showed up, the storm disappeared. I found out immediately that my instinct to get out of the way was not well-received by any of the sailors. Because there was such limited visibility in the thick of it and I was not below deck, where the “normal” people apparently go in such a situation, they actually thought I was a (wo)man overboard throughout most of the chaos and they were not happy with me. They all hugged me tightly while simultaneously scolding me the rest of the trip in for being an absolute effing moron. But I was still grinning because of my life-altering experience up on that bow.
Fast forward more than three decades to 2019… I have now been married to Sheepdog for 26 years and together we have five incredible kids. My life is amazing by every standard, but I am definitely the boring one on the team. Sheepdog has jumped out of an airplane, flies downhill on a mountain bike while navigating stumps and jumps, is an actual boxer in a ring with punches to the head and body, commutes to work on a bicycle in crazy Atlanta traffic, and who knows what death-defying X-Game he’ll attempt to make part of his daily life next? This has been an integral part of his personality his entire life, so it is not my place to challenge him for behaving like that. As yin to his yang, I have a personal need to be the steady and dependable one in the duo. That, in conjunction with the reprimand for my sailboat antics, has curbed me from doing anything too dangerous over the years. Now I plan meals, make sure the kids have school supplies and toiletries, and I do laundry. That’s about it. Cue the adrenaline rush.
As our kids become more independent and head off to college and move out and get married and get older in general, my role is changing. They need me less and less (although part of me hopes they’ll always need their mama just a little bit) and I started having more time to myself, as well as the ability to branch out and do more exciting things than pick up the dry cleaning.
In the fall of 2019, Kid C left for college, so it was just me, Sheepdog, and the two boys at home. While Kid D is a high schooler and Kid E is still in middle school, they are pretty self-reliant and I started to taste the freedom. I got excited about dipping my toe back into a life that was a smidge more about me than about my husband and kids. After years of almost exclusively doing my mom job, I was ready to think about things that brought me joy and excitement… things that brought back that feeling of being in the middle of an unpredicted squall on the bow of a sailboat and make my soul feel truly alive.
So at this family birthday party at the very end of 2019, I wanted to gauge reactions of those closest to me to my plan and I started announcing that 2020 was going to be the YEAR OF ME. My 50th birthday was coming up in October and I just knew that this was the right time for a change. At some point, Sheepdog heard my declarations (in all fairness he had been encouraging me to do something along these lines for a while, but my justification for not doing anything was that someone should still be the reliable parent while the kids are young and he certainly wasn’t changing any of his behaviors). Later on during the party, I overheard Sheepdog telling another guest that 2020 was going to be OUR year of travel and time together and lots of new stuff. He was so proud and excited as he started naming exotic locations and adventures.
Right then, something inside me snapped. How dare he hone in on my year? I understand and appreciate that he loves me and wants to spend time together and wants the excitement for us both, but the plan – MY PLAN – was to be selfish and I wanted Sheepdog to be the yang to my yin and maybe sit still safely in the corner playing the role of the dependable one for a few minutes while I did my thing, whatever it may be.
So I stood up in the middle of the party and I said loudly to Sheepdog, “NO!” and then to everyone else I over-dramatically raised my hands and voice and proclaimed, “2020 is going to be the YEAR OF ME, or it will be the YEAR OF NOBODY!”
…and that is my confession and while I am humble enough to realize I can not affect an entire planet, there’s the whole thing about the power of words and what if another person said the exact same thing at the exact same time and it was like a Jinx situation? I have knocked on wood and thrown salt and thrown a ball far, far away and all of the things you’re supposed to do to undo bad fortune. I am so very truly sorry that I yelled what I yelled and 2020 has been such an upside down and sideways debacle and I’m sorry that I was being selfish and I hope that by writing this post I can undo whatever wrinkle I put out into the universe and we can all just go back to boring and regular and normal next year. The End.
Wish me luck for tomorrow and I wish you all a healthy and happy new year and may you all make 2021 your BEST YEAR EVER!
Your kid texts you shortly after leaving for middle school in the morning, “Mom I left my project on the bus what can I do?”
Do you (A) give him some tough love and reinforce his independence by telling him to go to the front office and ask for help, and when they are not able to offer anything other than “you’ll just have to wait until you ride the bus home after school” you explain that he has to be responsible for his mistakes (although everybody is human and everybody makes them); or
(B) call the county school bus company, get transferred to dispatch, explain the situation, hold while he radios the bus driver on the walkie-talkie, says she looked but found nothing, text your kid back with the bad news, talk your kid off the ledge because he worked on the project for days and will get a late grade if he doesn’t turn it in today, continue periodically trying to calm him down via text, an hour later decide to call the county school bus company again (wonder should you disguise your voice this time… but decide no, that’s weird and not believable because your British accent tends to fall off mid-sentence) and ask if you can personally locate and search the bus because the kid knows down to the row, seat, and exact coordinates where he left it, profess your undying love for the understanding dispatcher who goes out to the bus, looks for and locates the project himself, drive to the bus depot two towns over (thus missing the last group workout of the morning and you know you’re not going to the afternoon one now) to pick up the project, drive it to your kid’s school, and text him to let him know it is there for pick up, then come home and take a nap?
Yeah, me too. I went with (A). I definitely went with that one. Oh, who am I kidding? That nap was awesome.
And he had a quiz in the middle of all of this! You know it’s serious when juvenile humor doesn’t get a smile out of him. Try saying ‘Boobie Washington’ a few times without giggling. You can’t.
I told Sheepdog back at the very end of February that I was bored. Bored of using my mad Tetris skills to load the dishwasher, bored with devising creative punishments for kids who do stupid things, bored by folding laundry (yes, even fitted sheets). Bored of driving all around this overpopulated suburban utopia. Bored by Netflix (gasp!). Bored with writing, even. Bored, bored, bored. Just bored. Pffft.
Sheepdog, being a manly man, went into problem solver mode and sent me away. In March he put me on a plane to Key West and attempted to curtail my ennui with balmy weather, college roommates, and cocktails. I had a good time. I don’t do things half-assed, so Nate the Great and the Boring Beach Bag (that’s me being bored with reading children’s literature) just kept keeping on. I came back from my long weekend happy, hungover, tired, and sick, … but still bored.
Speaking of beach bags, I even tried shaking things up with an impromptu break in spring by taking a (partial) family trip. Kids C, D, E, and I road tripped on down to the white sand paradise of Cape San Blas, where we roasted s’mores, dug holes to China with the cousins, and avoided sharks. A great time was had by all (except maybe the shark), but afterwards I was still eh.
I spent April managing schedules, cooking and washing, and – of course – driving. Why is there so much driving? I decided to rally and crush my job hand-on-the-plow style. In the life game of Rock, Paper, Scissors of Behavioral Traits, I supposed that tenacity would beat boredom every time, but it seems I was incorrect.
So by the beginning of May I was bored and wrong. Even wearing my hair up in a high ponytail wasn’t helping.
And then I got excited. About the possibility of a short-term, full-time job.
I know, right? Who AM I right now?
You may be wondering what kind of insanity pool I would even consider dipping my pinky toe into, given that I am currently in the midst of actively raising and parenting five children and running a house while my husband holds down a very demanding and stressful career, complete with out-of-state travel and various coaching/ volunteering jobs. I assure you, this job would be awesome. And it would be hard, but we could make it work because it is only for a few weeks. But I am sworn to secrecy about it and I can not tell you anything else about it while I await a hiring decision. As I told the kids, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
Now they all think I’m going to work for the CIA.
Just thinking about the possibility of something different has breathed new life into my soul. I wasn’t even looking. It simply presented itself and now I want it more than anything. Even though I laughed until I almost peed while I updated and edited my resume. It took a whole lot of Bondo to fill that 14-year hole in my work experience. What’s another term for “overqualified ass-wiper?”
In the meantime, I am still a SAHM, and this week is the week of all things Mother’s Day. I had a tea to attend on Monday, where Kid E recited a poem he wrote entitled “I Love You More Than…” He included lots of homemade food items and our neighborhood water slide, for which I was very grateful, but Minecraft was suspiciously left off the list. At least I know exactly where I stand with that kid.
Also this week, Kid D came home with a new repertoire of ‘Yo’ Mama’ jokes:
Yo’ mama is so stupid, she got locked in a mattress store overnight and she slept on the floor.
Yo’ mama is so short, you can see her feet on her driver’s license.
Yo’ mama is so ugly, Bob the Builder looked at her and said “I CAN’T FIX THAT!”
Yo’ mama is so dumb, she played ‘Got Your Nose’ with Voldemort. Then he killed her.
The kids and I roared with laughter as he told each new joke. The other kids joined in and added their favorites as well. Then somebody started machine gun farting or something like that, so I put an end to the stand up routines.
That night as I was tucking Kid E into bed, I was feeling nostalgic about him still being little and sweet and I felt the need to explain to him that Yo’ Mama jokes are actually people making fun of moms and he shouldn’t be mean. And since Kid E is the sweetest kid ever, he said he understood and then he made up his own joke and then he grabbed my face and said, “Yo’ mama is so fast that she wins every race that she runs. Like that, Mom?”
Exactly like that, kid. I guess am totally winning, even if I don’t get that other job for the CIA. Happy Mother’s Day!
It is no secret that I think most holidays are contrived by the powers that be to boost the economy through the sale of needless crap that does not actually mean that a person loves you. There is most likely a Kay Jewelers in every mall in hell. Gifts do not equal love.
Say that in your head one more time because it is important. Gifts do not equal love.
Loving behavior equals love. Lots of loving behaviors. Over time. And rocky terrain. And loving behaviors on sunny days and during the fun stuff and in the middle of all of the excitement too. Lots and lots of loving behavior equals love. Gifts do not equal love.
I will, however, make an exception to my rant to allow sarcastic valentines to squeak in. I can definitely get on board with these. I might even go so far as to say that these valentines would count as a little bit of love. May I suggest a few that should be sent from my family?
From Kid E:
From Kid D:
From Kid C:
From Kid B:
From Kid A:
Now that’s what I call love, folks. Lots and lots and lots of love.
A few weeks back I went online and purchased tickets to a predicted train wreck of a movie for Sheepdog and I to see this Valentine’s weekend. The very popular book series that inspired said film had proven to be a key ingredient to a very memorable vacation for us a few years back in Cabo San Lucas. Given that we are not going on that trip to Mexico this year, and the fact that Sheepdog tethers himself to the thought of that week as if it were an actual life source, I figured I would throw him a bone(r). Mr. Grey will see you now.
And then I thought it would be nice to invite my sisters and their husbands to the theater as well. So I texted them about it.
Between happily married, consenting adults, that is.
Wish me luck for tomorrow. Sheepdog’s not going to need any. He’s got 50 Shades of Lucky coming his way.
In the history of Christianity and the modern world (and without thinking about it too hard), I can not for the life of me come up with another single day for which there are so many preparations, so much forethought, such grand anticipation, and so much egg nog. The planning, the lists, the shopping, wrapping, cooking, baking, stamping, mailing, decorating… all for ONE SINGLE DAY. And it happens every single year!
I get it. I really do… I am trying to hold true to the real reason for the season, while still making special memories for my family. Don’t overdo it, but don’t make your kids feel like freaks because all they got from Santa was an orange. I mean, I read John Grisham’s Skipping Christmas. I get it.
This year, I approached Christmas with calm. I figured I’d aim for yin and things would all balance out in the end. I had sprained my ankle in a freak (okay, slightly drunken) slippery, gravel road incident on Thanksgiving, so I had an actual reason not to do a lot of running around anyway. I worked hard (fortunately, it didn’t take much) to keep the joy of Christmas in my heart every day and to spread that joy to all* I met.
(* Except for that one lady in the parking lot near Homegoods. There was a bit of a car jam at the traffic light and she didn’t wish to wait. In the meantime, my cell phone rang and I answered it manually before switching to Bluetooth. The red light lasted for, oh, about a decade, so her impatience just kept mounting and mounting. She directed it all at me and screamed through her windshield, “HANG UP YOUR PHONE! I AM CALLING THE POLICE!” I was like, “It is a red light. I’m not even driving.” So she all-caps yelled at me again. I may have misplaced my yin a little when I yelled back at her (just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman), “Fine! You’re calling the cops? Great. Tell them I said, ‘Hi’!” Then I laughed out loud and mouthed to her, “You do see the irony in the fact that you are PICKING UP YOUR OWN PHONE to call the police and tell on me for being on the phone, RIGHT?” And then the light turned green. Merry Christmas, Lady.)
It has taken a full week for me to recover from my family’s awesome Christmas. And it truly was awesome. I am a very lucky girl.
Today is New Year’s Day. It is the day that represents starting over and clean slates and all things NEW. I am not a big New Year’s Eve partier anymore, so I usually wake up early on January 1st and I get to enjoy all of the newness by myself for a little while. It is one of my favorite mornings of the whole year.
So, here for your enjoyment is the Swiger Family Christmas card for 2014. I know I’m a whole week or so late, but it does say, “Happy 2015” on the back. Technically, I guess I am scootching in on the tail end.
But I’d like to think that I am actually sneaking in at the beginning of the NEW. May 2015 bring you joy and hope and lots of opportunities to live the life that makes you happy.
All across these United States, college students are fah-reak-ing out over finals. The Stacks are full and their Starbuck’s accounts are almost empty. Just hang on, kids. It’s almost winter break.
I need to talk to Kid A about all kinds of things… money, schedules, where she plans to live next year, her grandiose plans for spring break vs. what’s really going to go down, etc. But finals week is not the time to bring up such serious buzz kill topics. This is the time to send love notes, supportive messages, and comfort food.
The question has always stumped me. I have never come up with a really good answer. My whole life, I have always been flummoxed when someone puts me to the task of explaining my family traditions or heritage-related stuff. I guess it is because I wasn’t really raised in any kind of specific, culturally rich atmosphere.
We only spoke one language in my house. I didn’t have a crazy grandmother always yelling things in Greek or Italian or Chinese at me. Don’t get me wrong. I definitely had a crazy grandmother. It’s just that she yelled, “Dammit! Who hid my cigarettes again?” and “Don’t be a beer counter, you little jerk!” in English. Nobody came to America on a boat or was smuggled in a truck (or even flew here on a plane for that matter) for at least a few generations back. We definitely didn’t celebrate any holidays that weren’t pre-marked in red or depicted in the monthly picture on the linen hand towel calendar in the kitchen.
If Snoopy and Woodstock were slinging back sunflowers instead of margaritas, how were we supposed to know to celebrate Cinco de Mayo?
There was always talk that my father’s side of the family was German along with some other Western European sprinkles (French, English) and my mother’s side was similar, minus the German, and somehow plus some Native American. I think that my ancestors have lived on American soil for a really long time, but honestly I’ve never actually entered my credit card information on ancestry.com to confirm or find out otherwise. I don’t know what is true and what is made up. I have always just considered myself kind of a cultural mutt. And I am okay with that.
Until Thanksgiving, that is.
‘Tis the season for unveiling your cultural relevance and family traditions. The friends with whom we will be celebrating Thanksgiving asked how we could incorporate ours with theirs. This year my parents and two of my sisters and their families are going on a cruise in the Carribbean. I was just going to watch football and make stuffing from the box, so… um, just run with yours. Most of my kids are working on homework assignments and projects that involve where they came from and how we as a family celebrate that. I think that the kids are as frustrated about the family void when it comes to this subject as I was, so they are finally employing some creative license to get the job done.
Kid B was given the assignment by her Spanish teacher to make and explain a traditional, cultural recipe as it applies to her family. She asked if she could instead make an old, family dessert recipe* that would represent our heritage, even though it had nothing to do with us maybe being slightly German-English-French-1/16th Cherokee. The teacher said go for it.
So Kid B went to the grocery store and got the ingredients for cookie dough, a box of Oreos, and a brownie kit. She mixed them individually, layered the cookie dough on the bottom, covered it with the Oreos, and then spread the brownie mix on top. And, voila… a batch of “slutty brownies” was made. Yes, that’s really what they are called due to the wicked threesome of ingredients.
According to ancient family lore, you can make them even sluttier by adding a layer of dulce de lece before the brownies.
So now I guess, traditionally speaking, I can finally say we have a cultural identity. And I am okay with that, although I do hope it translates to something a little nicer in Spanish.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
*Slutty brownies are not, in fact, any kind of old, family recipe. I have never made them in my life. As far as I know, they started going around the internet a few years ago. They are both easy to make and sinfully delicious. Kid B was just looking for an excuse to make them.
Originally, Kid A was planning to take a nanny job with three little kids in a nearby neighborhood for the summer. But then she was offered a summer internship at my dad’s law firm in southern New Jersey. She weighed her options: Babies or the beach? Wearing t-shirts covered in finger paints and spit up or dressing up for an office job every day? Living at home with your parents who are always complaining about money or staying with grandparents who basically buy you whatever you ask for? Kid A is smart, has always been independent, and has had one foot out our door since she went to Spanish immersion camp the summer between her sophomore and junior years of high school. Obviously she chose the internship. She has been gone (with the exception of a long weekend when she came back to GA for college orientation) since the beginning of June.
Kid A and I texting a few short weeks after she left
Kid B was relied upon heavily during the house selling and buying phase of the summer. Basically, she raised the other kids for us. Well, she did along with all of the video game systems we have in the house. Do you know what happens when you leave a 15-year-old in charge? I’m talking no bathing until the weird smells start to offend, cereal/ peanut butter sandwiches/ frozen chicken nuggets as the “fancy” meals, and a glazed look in everyone’s eyes as a result of 8 – 10 hours a day of electronics exposure. I wasn’t paying attention to how bad it had gotten until one morning, after dropping Kid B at the soccer field for training, Kid E and I were having a nice car conversation. Then he asked me if I knew what a K/D spread was. I did not, but said I could look it up when we got home. Imagine my horror when I learned it was short for Kill/Death ratio (basically, how many kills you achieved before your character was in turn killed), tracked in Halo, a military science fiction video game. Parenting Fail #1,024 for the summer.
Me: Um, you know that this is a video game and you NEVER, EVER shoot anyone in real life, right? Because when you die in real life, you don’t get more lives.
Kid E: Yeah. Yes. Of course, mom. I know. Everybody knows that.
Eh, they’ll survive.
Fortunately for everyone, I was quickly jolted back into a lead parenting role as Kid B had a trip of her own planned this summer. She went to Europe to guest play with a team from Mount Pleasant, South Carolina in an international soccer tournament. She was gone for almost two weeks. She traveled to several cities in Spain (including Barcelona, San Sebastian, and Madrid) as well as the beach in Biarritz, France. She had the trip of a lifetime and didn’t miss home very much at all. As a matter of fact, she admitted to crying on the plane ride home because she couldn’t stay there for the rest of the summer.
For me, the time with both Kid A and Kid B gone was amazing. Don’t get me wrong… I enjoy both of them tremendously and love that they are my children. But let’s be honest about the Catch-22 situation involved in raising independent, strong-willed, powerful women (which is my end game in successful parenting Kids A, B, and C, by the by). There is the occasional tension and butting of heads between teenage girls and their mothers. And I’m saying that in the nicest way possible. Add in PMS, some OCD, the DMV, a deficit in R-E-S-P-E-C-T, plus a pinch of sarcasm, and you likely get one or more parties CRBT (crying real big tears). I already knew it, but while they were gone I was hit once again by the fact that raising teenagers is really hard. I’ve stopped counting all of my parenting fails with them.
Eh, they’ll survive.
But will I?
Oh, of course I will. I used their time away to thoroughly enjoy the three littles (well, Kid C is not so little anymore, but you know what I mean). We went to the movies and the pool and we played games and stayed up too late and went out to dinner (it’s much more affordable with less people!). It was relaxing and light and fun. No matter how many kids you start out with, it turns out having fewer is kind of a vacation.
But when it was time to pick Kid B up from the airport, we were all excited and ready for her to be home again. Especially the ‘kids’ that she raised for us.
Now we are back to 4/5. And even though it is only for a little while, I can’t wait for all of my chickens to be home. Having Kid A go off to college in August will definitely be interesting.
I was at one of those trampoline jumping birthday party places with a friend recently. While our kids played dodge ball and bounced out some extra summer energy, we had a nice talk. She shared something with me and then added, “Oh, I hope that’s not TMI.” I laughed and reminded her that she was talking to a giant over-sharer. The conversation went on from there and my friend said something to me that others have also mentioned in the past, regarding the state of my marriage.
“I see you as such a strong couple, ” she said. “You seem like very good communicators, and you make a good team.”
I thanked her, then reminded her of a very critical fact. Yes, Sheepdog and I work very, very hard at our relationship, but it is far from perfect. We fight, disagree, act selfishly or immaturely, and go to bed mad at one another just like everybody else. We have different interests, hobbies, and schedules. We have dealt with big and little struggles and we have been through counseling several times. There was a time about nine or ten years into our marriage when we actually decided to get a divorce. But then we let down our defenses and started enjoying each other and our family and decided that divorce was one of the dumbest ideas we had come up with in a really long time.
Even though we worked through that craziness, we occasionally get off track again we get to a point where we act more like porcupines than dolphins.
This is an excerpt from one of our recent conversations:
Sheepdog: “What’s wrong? Why are you so grouchy?”
Me: “I’m due for my period on Saturday.”
Sheepdog: “You are either on your period, about to get your period, or just getting over having had your period.”
Me: (expertly executing the evil wife death stare)
Me: “I can’t hear you over the glorious sound in my head of me hitting you with a shovel.”
So close… if only it were a shovel and she got to hold it.
So, just like you would change the oil in your car every 6,000 miles, or you swap out the air filters in your HVAC system quarterly, or you check the batteries in your smoke alarms every six months, or buy new running shoes after 3 or 400 miles, Sheepdog and I felt like it was time for a marriage check up. Yesterday we went back to counseling, and we will keep going back until we get things back on track. And we are both very hopeful.
Today we celebrate our 21st wedding anniversary. I say “celebrate” purposefully, even in the middle of a rough patch, because it is certainly something that we are very proud of. It is hard to stay married to one person for a long time. It is hard to stay friends with one person for a long time. It takes a lot of energy. People constantly change and evolve and life is hard and kids are demanding and work is stressful. But Sheepdog and I are doing it, and we are committed to doing it for as long as we both shall live.