A Cup of Comfort for Couples (21 page)

Still, even after we became engaged, I worried she would discover my inner Bill Pullman. It was enough to cause panic attacks whenever she suggested we go camping or for a canoe ride. At last, she would see how incompetent I was at such outdoorsy things and fall for whichever rugged guide came out to save us after our canoe tipped!

When it was just the two of us, there was enough time and space for her to talk me down, but now that we have a daughter, my wife has a shorter supply of patience for such idiosyncrasies. Her impatience was enough to make me fear for the worst. The first two years of parenthood are hard on a marriage, and it isn't a great time to indulge in insecurities about a relationship. Sleep deprivation heightens paranoia, and trying to have a conversation with your spouse when your baby is awake is like trying to talk to her from across a crowded subway platform. But now our daughter is old enough to play by herself for a minute or two, and she'll even let us get a word in edgewise, so my wife and I are slowly rediscovering each other.

As parents, if we're lucky, we lose a little of our emotional baggage during our first child's infancy (which is a good thing, because whatever remains hangs like a millstone around our necks). Moping because of an imagined slight or angst over one's career becomes inexpedient when it takes half of a precious nap. There simply isn't enough time, and we decide to drop certain facades of our personality that we no longer find useful.

Taking stock as my daughter's infancy was winding down, I was surprised to discover that I'd left Bill Pullman somewhere along the side of the road. It probably happened gradually each day, as I received a grateful look from my wife whenever I handed her a bowl of soup or a look of relief from her whenever I walked in the door. Once a child comes into the picture, the stakes are raised in a marriage. We no longer look for Mr. or Ms. Right at a time when we are only desperate for Mr. or Ms. Could You Please Hand Me a Diaper and Make Me a Cup of Tea.

An aging actor once said that as we get older, competence increasingly becomes a turn-on. When thinking about marriage, I would replace competence with kindness. For if attraction is the spark that ignites love, it is a thousand daily kindnesses that keep love's flame alive.

Incidentally, I found a recent picture of Bill Pullman on the Internet while writing this essay. He looks older, balder, and fatter. Then again, so does Tom Hanks.

—
Craig Idlebrook

This story was first published in
Funny Times
, September 2008.

Love and the Un-Romantic

“W
hen were we last romantic?” I ask my husband.

“Huh?”

“You know, when was our last romantic moment?”

He ponders the question, laughs, and then takes a sip of Gatorade from the gallon-sized container in the fridge.

I've been mulling over our twenty-two years of marriage and have yet to come up with a romantic memory. But now I'm determined to because I cannot believe that, in all these years, nothing comes to mind. So I say to myself,
Think
,
Mary
.
Think
.

I start with our honeymoon. We had decided to pass on the beaches of St. Thomas and the mountains of the Poconos and instead chose to head for Nashville. We were both gigging musicians, and the sound of “Music City, U.S.A.” tickled our ears.

I had bought a red, floral party dress at a vintage thrift shop a few weeks prior to the big day, and I was exuberant and all a-fluff at the airport. We were on our way! But soon I was wincing as I crammed all that lovely red taffeta under my seatbelt on the flight to Tennessee. Fashion maven Betsy Johnson would have been in tears had she seen the wrinkled mess I had become when I walked off the plane. By the time we got to the baggage claim, my feet hurt so much that I scrapped my patent leather shoes for a pair of sneakers before we made our way to a nearby motel.

Tired from the day's excitement and long trip, we decided to stay in for the night and just order a pizza. And, frankly, we were perfectly happy with that.

The rest of our honeymoon was filled with many happy moments, but none that I remember as being truly romantic. Guitar shopping? Our day at the Carl Perkins Railroad Museum? Buying those Elvis mugs we just
had
to have at Graceland? I know for sure that driving over the Memphis–Arkansas Memorial Bridge — just so we could shout, “We're in Arkansas!” out the window of the car — would not be considered textbook romance. Inane. Memorable. Maybe even adorable. But romantic? Not even.

My husband and I are in love, no doubt. Crazy about each other. Two peas in a pod. But truly romantic moments of the traditional variety? None come to mind.

On Valentine's Day we go to our favorite family-run Mexican restaurant and order our no-fail combo plates (number thirteen for him; number seven for me) as our son dips tortilla chips into the salsa and uses his finger to flick the onions back into the dipping bowl.

On each of my birthdays, my husband usually asks, “So what are we doing for your birthday?” — as in “I didn't make any plans.” A trip to the bakery for a cake ensues, and I call in the troops for a slice. The cake, as usual, is adorned with “the” candle, a tacky wax mold of the words “Happy Birthday” that has been in my husband's family longer than I have.

I would be remiss if I were to claim that this lack of romantic aptitude is one-sided, all my husband's doing. It is not. I admit that I can't stomach romance novels, that I had a hard time getting through
Pride and Prejudice
, and that I'd cringe if my husband offered me jewelry that bore any semblance to the shape of a heart. (I happily accept, however, any such gifts from my young son.)

Still searching my memory for at least one romantic moment between my husband and me, I think about the time we bought our first — and only — home. Buying your first home would definitely be considered a major romantic event by most young couples. After all, it's a huge (and scary) new step in your coupled life. It's the largest expense you'll ever make together. And it's a major commitment to one another. A home of your own! Where you'll live together and grow old together and maybe even raise kids together. Where you'll have the wild freedom to paint your walls any ghastly color you might want! (I must add, my father told me before he died that the best thing about owning your own home is you can actually say to someone, “Get the he** out of my house!”)

When we moved into our humble abode, we had only two pieces of furniture: a pink foam foldout sofa (from my old bedroom at my mother's house) and a five-foot-tall bear statue that I'd found at an antiques store and simply fell in love with.

A couple of days before the house closing, I envisioned what it might be like to spend the first night in our new home: I would light candles and cook a meal in our new kitchen. I would set out a blanket by the fireplace, and we would snack on something delicious using the few dishes we owned. I kept thinking,
Oh,
won't
it be lovely
.

Unfortunately, my husband, while also excited, happened to be playing baseball with some company employees the day before the house closing and got rammed in the face with an elbow as the runner slid into home plate. So I spent the first night in our new home by myself while my husband recovered from orbital socket surgery in the hospital. In the silence of that empty house, I slept alone on my pink foam coach with that stupid bear looking on mockingly.

The birth of our son might have been a chance for romance. But colic isn't very romantic. I can remember one particular night, walking in my night-gown up and down the block while holding my son who would . . . not . . . stop . . . crying.

My husband pulled up in our car from a long day of work and shouted out to me “What are you doing?”

Through tears, I yelled back with much drama, “It doesn't matter anymore! It doesn't matter anymore!”

He took our crying child from my arms and led me to the car. He put the baby in the baby seat, and drove the three of us to the parkway. (The constant motion of driving will help a colicky baby go to sleep.) Once we hit Exit 25, he turned south toward the beach. Our baby's cries turned into whimpers, and by the time we reached the parking lot of the beach the baby was asleep.

Finally, peace and quiet, with only the sound of the ocean before us. My husband smiled and turned off the car. He took my hand, and we both reclined our seats and fell asleep. Under the stars, in the beach parking lot, we slept — a colicky baby and his two exhausted parents.

Now that I think about it, that's as close to romantic as we've ever been.

These days, I like to think of our boxed lunches on the bleachers of our son's Little League games as our mild attempt at romance.

I guess my husband and I are just anti-romantic, at least in the traditional sense.

Personally, though, I think all that romance stuff is somewhat overrated.

My husband and I are two halves that make a whole. We're happy with each other, our family, our music, our church life, our baseball games (big Mets fans), our bike rides, our son's recitals, and all the various things (exciting and less-than-exciting) that are part of our life together.

We are who we are, and we are in love. He is my guy, and I am his girl. We are perfectly, unashamedly, and unromantically blissful . . . together.

—
Mary C. M. Phillips

Who Could Ask for Anything More?

I
looked out the window and watched my neighbor remove the last five snowflakes from his driveway. After he used a shovel to scrape the places that the snow blower had missed, he brought out a finebristled broom to scrape up any snowflakes still caught in the rough pavement.

Just then my husband came in the back door, covered with more snow than he had removed and announcing that if I really wanted to get out of the driveway I should take the truck, which had four-wheel drive.

“Gee, did you notice our neighbor's driveway?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was comparing the two.

“Hello? Can you believe that guy?” my husband chuckled. “Isn't it enough that you can eat off his driveway in the summer? Does he know he's making the rest of us look bad?”

“He's probably just fussy when it comes to his driveway,” I said, even though I knew better. In the summer, his lawn not only is raked, it's also combed, and the trees are manicured to the point where he removes any leaves that don't look quite right and dresses the chipmunks in formal attire. They're really quite adorable. He scrapes the lichen off the tree trunks, and his birds are not only well fed but always look neat as a pin to boot.

“I can't imagine what the inside of his house looks like,” my husband yelled from the living room through a mouthful of potato chips. “I bet he drives his wife crazy.”

Oh
,
I bet he
doesn't
, I thought, as I cleaned up the pathway of chips my husband had dropped, à la Hansel and Gretel, from the kitchen to his easy chair.
I bet he wipes his feet at the door and then shakes
the rug out, washes and puts away the bowl he used
for a midnight snack
,
and makes the bed in the morning
as soon as his wife gets up to go to the bathroom
, I thought, allowing myself to dream.
That might bother
some people
,
but it sounds like a little bit of heaven to
me
.

I rescued the half-eaten bag of chips from my husband's lap when he jumped up to cheer for his favorite team, brushing a handful of crumbs off his shirt and onto the carpet.

“You know, ants like potato chips,” I said, trying not to sound like a nag.

“In the winter?” he replied without taking his eyes off the game. “That's what I'm talking about!” he yelled as the Patriots scored a touchdown.

I returned the bag of chips to its rightful spot in the pantry, and contemplated getting out the vacuum and running it across the living room and up the front of my husband's sweatshirt. I'm sure he figures that as long as everything gets vacuumed by spring, our house will be safe from unwanted wildlife.