Spencer and I celebrated our 11th anniversary with a trip down memory lane. We visited old haunts and enjoyed an entire weekend of fun from our dating days. The actual date of our anniversary was spent at Cedar Point and included lunch at the Weenee Hut (Be sure to use a condiment!).
11 Years and counting
I have a problem accepting limits, especially my personal limits. I have gotten much better about saying “no” when I am asked to do things that don’t fit into my life. However, I still take on too much. The problem is that I really want to do each of the things I am doing now. It just isn’t physically possible, but which one goes?
Unfortunately, more recently it has been my marriage. Partly, because marriage is really hard work. I am tired. I am stretched thin. I am fresh out of the energy it takes to nurture a relationship. But it is also, partly, because I truly do know he’ll always love me anyway.
I’m trying to force myself out of the rut. I want to recapture the love that we shared, rather than continue to be roommates. We started this alphabet dating
The idea is to come up with something more creative for a date that dinner and a movie. The only rule is movies don’t count. It has to be something that allows us to connect, rather than sit side by side ignoring each other. We had a couple evenings out, sponsored by the letters A & B. Our first 2 dates were pretty much dinner and, uh, now what? (Quick—think of a dessert that starts with a B!) From now on, the dates will be planned in advance so I guess I just created a second rule. We make things up as we go along.
Next up is C (duh) and we’re trying something a little different. We need to squeeze in 2 dates before E since we have a full weekend planned for our anniversary over Labor Day. Baby-sitters are a bit hard to come by so we’re skipping that part for our next date of campfire & creamsicles. We have everything we need for a date in our own backyard. Now we just need the girls to go to bed on time for once and the weather to cooperate.
Spencer and I have been together for almost 12 years, married for 10.5. It’s been a roller coaster—many ups & downs, but we just hold on tight and enjoy the ride. The last few months have been a long series of lows. It’s starting to wear on both of us. We’re figuring it out, and we have a plan now, but it was really touch and go for awhile. Christmas and New Year both sucked so we had it our head that we would start over on the Chinese New Year.
That didn’t go so well either. We’re running out of do-overs. It’s time to just move on, but I’m the type of person who needs the celebration of each passing moment. I need to mark it somehow. Sometimes that comes in the form of a party, sometimes I commemorate an event or year in a scrapbook; this time around I’m using a playlist.
Music is definitely more his thing than mine. He’s all about he music—from his iPod to his guitar to his latest video game. I, on the other hand, am all about the lyrics. I love words. It’s why I am a voracious reader. It’s why I journal in all my scrapbooks to tell my children our stories. It’s why sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will hurt me more.
In honor of Valentine’s Day, I have put together a list of songs that mean a lot to me in respect to our marriage. Maybe they tell our story, maybe they remind me of him, maybe they came out during a time they seemed relevant but mostly they say musically what I can’t seem to get across. I’m sure he’ll find it incredibly cheesy and hate most of the songs on the list, but marriage is all about compromise.
While packing for my trip this week, I asked someone to grab a train and a baby doll for Lorelai so she would have some of her favorites to keep her entertained. We’re going to be here all week and she is used to having two cabinets full of toys at her disposal.
The hubby said he took care of it so I crossed it off my list. We got to camp, and I opened my bag to pull out a talking dog—and nothing else.
Apparently, baby + train = dog
Who knew?
I love him. It’s just that simple.
I wear so many hats: wife, Mommy, chef, maid, Brownie leader, business owner. Why do I feel so guilty if I take them all off for an hour to just be Heather? We have a routine at our house. Every night at 8 p.m. we give each girl a kiss and tuck them into bed. Hubby heads off to the office—which is now a corner of our bedroom. I take a nice, long bubble bath. This has been going on for about 3 years now. Yet every night, I feel like I should spend what little time we have in the evenings as his wife.
We don’t have a lot of alone time as a couple. Stacia came along 4 months after the wedding. Go ahead, do the math. Now that we have 3 kids, there’s rarely a moment’s peace. A part of me feels like our quiet evenings should be spent together. Then I remember why I do it. It rejuvenates me. It restores my soul. I can truly be his wife, instead of sitting next to him on the couch all evening as an exhausted shell of a mom. I spend an hour each evening washing the mom off, and the next two being a woman.
Bathtime isn’t the only time guilt sets in. Last year, I left town all by myself. Spencer played single dad for the first time ever. Oh, I’ve left for an evening or afternoon, but never before had he been in charge for a full 2 days. The girls wanted to go with me, and when they clung and pouted as I walked out the door I had a hard time remembering all the reasons they shouldn’t. Brenia was sick. Three hours in a car would not be fun. Stacia gets so emotional that she did not need to go to a funeral when she didn’t know the person. I needed the time to say goodbye when I wasn’t surrounded by others who needed me. But none of those reminders did anything to quell the guilt.
I think Mommy Guilt multiplies with each child. I worry phenomenally more about being a better mom. It filters into every aspect of our lives. I stress now over splitting my time even further and end up over compensating. Case in point: learning to sew in 3 days so I could make 18 aprons for my daughter’s Baking Birthday Party. I was successful, by the way, but at the expense of added guilt over how little time I spent planning the last birthday—nevermind that she’s only 3—and the feelings of abandonment the wee one suddenly developed while I spent several hours hunched over my new sewing machine.
She has now figured out the bathtime ritual and begins a preemptive tantrum as I start the water to prevent me from leaving her. She is not usually successful, though I do tend to rush out when her screams begin to waft up the stairs. My baths have gone from over an hour to barely 30 minutes, but I still manage to squeeze it in-guilt and all. Plus I get to feel guilty that he no longer gets to spend his alone time because he’s too busy dealing with our spoiled rotten mommy’s girl. I have decided to ignore that pang because I need it more.
Today I walked to the mailbox in my pajamas—greasy, I-haven’t-showered-in-two-days hair and all—just to get a break. I had an extra child yesterday so I have cuddle time to make up for baby. She cries if I set her down for a minute—even in her beloved swing. So off I went to get the mail as if my life depended on while she wailed her teeny head off inside. Now she’s snoring and I feel guilty that I have to put her down so I fix something to eat, but considering that both our bodies depend on that sustenance I’d best get to it.
I tell myself it will get better. One day she’ll outgrow the need for constant reassurance. One day none of them will even remember the things I guiltily stress over. One day I will sleep again. One day I will have the time to devote to my husband. One day I will see my children all grown up and realize I didn’t do so bad afterall—I hope.
