Confetti

{Ahem. Fast forward three weeks...}

Hi!

Allow me to re-tell a story. Once when I was a young mother we were preparing to go on vacation, taking a road trip a couple of states away. I do what you do in that situation: lists and crossing off and packing and re-packing and checking. Do I have enough diapers? Does everyone have pajamas? Where are the little busy things for the long car ride? Did I stop the mail? Who will water the plants? You know.

Finally, we pulled out of our neighborhood ready for the adventure. After a while, 3-year-old Lauren piped up from the back seat. 

"Mom, did you remember to bring my blankie?"

"Yep, here it is."

Silence.

"Mom?"

"Uh huh?"

"Did you bring pink bear?"

Silence. Quick calculation of how far we've already driven. Too far. Life would have to go on without pink bear.

"No.......I think I forgot it Lauren. I'm sorry!"

Silence.

"Mom. Can't you even remember two things?"

 . . . 

Every once in a while over the past month or so I've chided myself "can't you even juggle two things?" but then I remind myself that those Two Things actually include so very many pieces that it feels like juggling confetti. So I decided that juggling is overrated. It's completely the wrong metaphor for my life right now in this season. What's the point, really, in trying to juggle confetti?  If you have confetti, you should be enjoying how it floats around your head and admiring the colors. You should be celebrating. I'm not sure where to go with that analogy but those were my thoughts. Be in the moment. Be glad for the bounty. Don't be so tough on yourself. Be wise in choosing your metaphors.

All this is just to say that it's a little crazy sometimes but I am loving being surrounded in our particular blend of confetti.

looking cool - losing teeth
sewing patches - contemplating schools

dressing up for Oscars - enjoying early spring
promming - celebrating oreo's 100th

jury duty - lunchtime walks
Sound of Music costumes for Sam - Celtics Game with G

Work wagering

Our family has a (possibly apocryphal) story about my great-grandmother Elsie. She had nine daughters and, naturally, it was essential that everyone chip in and do their part to keep the household going. One morning she discovered that one of the daughters hadn't done her work. Known for her spunk, my great grandma marched over to the school where they were gathered for their morning assembly.  She wrote a little note and it was passed from hand to hand all the way up to the front where the principal read it aloud: "Please send ____ home to come complete her unfinished work." (Someone in the family please correct me...this is the gist of it but I don't remember the particulars.)

. . .

Well, this one's for you, Elsie:

Yesterday I discovered that certain smaller people in the house didn't do their prep-for-guests jobs that they were asked to do this weekend. Now, maybe they wagered that, since it's kind of important to have clean bathrooms for guests, I would just go ahead and do their jobs for them.

They wagered wrong!

Nothing a little sign can't fix.

I don't think they were sufficiently embarrassed though, at least not enough to commence cleaning. I may have to resort to marching to the school... So basically what we have is a work standoff. Who's going to blink first?

What works in your house to get the crew working?

A Modest Proposal ii

The next day I picked up G in his little green car.  He suggested we go up in the canyon for a picnic, his glance darting to the turquoise duffle bag. I had spent the whole night thinking and then early in the morning confided in my good friend next door. My immediate instinct was to postpone the proposal however I could until I got a better grasp of what I wanted.

So we traveled through the canyon, making small talk. I was overly aware of the bag. That stupid bag, that blessed bag.  At Sundance, we parked, grabbed our things (hello, duffle bag companion!), and hiked up the mountain.  We spread out a blanket and chatted about the day, the gorgeous surroundings, school.  In a sudden rush of panic my proposal avoidance system activated.

"Want to take a walk?"  I blurted.

"Sure." G swooped the bag--which had been nestled close to G on the blanket--up to his shoulder.  

We made our way toward a small stream at the foot of Mt. Timpanogos, a wonderfully romantic technicolor scene on this September afternoon.  The mountains seemed to be holding their breath.  G invited me to sit on the grass as he ceremoniously unzipped the duffle bag. [Now I was holding my breath, too.]  This is it, I thought.

He took out two crystal goblets, both wrapped carefully in a frayed blue bath towel, and my favorite sparkling soda.

"What's this, a picnic?" I asked, coyly. And inanely.  As if we hadn't already been calling it a picnic and I hadn't noticed the bag fastened to him all day.

"Uh-huh" G smiled faintly.

We gulped down our drinks, both nervous for our own reasons.  Stalling for time, I asked for a refill and drank it, too.  Do I want this to happen? what's the way forward? Distraction seems much more compassionate than rejection.  And I don't want to reject him. I'm just not sure.  I don't want him to ask unless I'm sure.

"Um...G?"  

"Yeah?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."  I really did.  I was suffering the consequences of the refill. We packed up the bottles and glasses and G replaced them in the bag, careful not to reveal its other contents.  But I thought I could see a bit of light blue velvet.

. . .

Confused? Read the first installment here. There's more to come. Eventually.

Picture taken on my parents' deck, September 1989, on the way to USU's Homecoming.  Oh the hair (both of us!). G's about to laugh and I've got a strange overbite happening. Look at our little young, starry-eyed selves. 

A modest proposal

 Just a little story in honor of my 20th anniversary this week. (I'm a little nervous about this whole heart-on-sleeve storytelling but here goes...) 

It was the first time I ever cried in a supermarket, unless you count the time I threw a tantrum for a lollipop when I was three.  But there I was, amidst the harsh flourescent lighting, overly friendly produce men in red polyester jackets, and tear-soaked lettuce.  I missed him, two hours away.  I missed him to distraction. 

I had been dating G for fifteen months--six of those months I was in London and three more I was away at school--so we had endured separations before.  In fact we joked about our feast-or-famine dating. No big deal. But the cold aching gnaw below my heart was telling me differently. I felt bereft and that wasn't good for my plans.  Not good at all.

Love...marriage...all of this was scheduled much later in my life plan, certainly after college graduation. We had talked about how we would wait for any serious plans, despite the increasing undercurrent of certainty about the fact that we would share a future, eventually. Some day. When we were older and had more of our career paths set. When the grad school we both planned was finished.  That was beginning to feel really very distant, the feasts too infrequent, the famines too...famine-y.

When G arrived the next Saturday night for our weekly visit we booked a table to eat at our favorite spot.  But this night the feasting failed.  Halfway through dinner, G seemed distracted, blankly nodding with a glazed look.  Finally he admitted to feeling a little sick. "Maybe the flu" he said so I took him back to my apartment for a place to recover.  An hour later he was still ill so I ran out for some medicine.  The night crawled on until I convinced him off of the sick-couch and took him home to his friend's apartment where he was crashing for the night.

I dropped him off and as he left the car he promised to see me tomorrow. "Don't forget to lock the car, okay?"  These words rang in my ears as I drove back to my place.  Don't forget to lock the avocado green 1971 Toyota Corolla station wagon? Does it even lock?  I had never seen him lock it before.

Once back in my parking lot, one glance in the back seat told me that Greg forgot his duffel bag. Poor guy, first he gets the stomach flu and now he doesn't even have his things for the night.  I grabbed the bag and hefted it up to my lap.  Expecting to find a razor or a towel or books or clothes, I unzipped the turquoise duffel bag and flailed my hand through the dark opening.

The contents clinked together and my hand brushed the velvet covering of a small box.  Curious, I clutched the box and brought it out into the field of the lone streetlight.  In my hand was a light blue jewelry box, much like one...an...engagement...  My mind choked on the thought.

Should I open it? [pause]  Yes.

Slowly I creaked open the box to reveal two gold rings nestled in the furrow, one bearing a gleaming diamond.  Frantically, my heart started beating faster and my mind protested: I thought we had already...oh no...I can't believe this...what am I going to do...does the ring even fit?

Should I try it on? [pause] Um, yeah.

I tugged the ring from the anchor and slipped it over the knuckles of my left ring finger.  A little snug but it fits.  I'll get used to it.

Then the tears started, not the muffled supermarket kind but real, solitary weeping.  It would be a long night.  Tomorrow he'll ask.  What will I say?  As I laid in bed, many things played through my mind: thoughts of expectations (my own and others'), of stories of my cousin turning several proposals down, of overheard conversations about happy relationships and other, distressed marriages.  One last thought drifted before sleep fell: I'll bet I'm the first one in history to propose to herself.

To be continued...

Passing the Bridge of Sighs

 

Our {20th!} anniversary is coming up next month and we dream of marking it with a trip sometime this year. Part of our routine is to toss around lots of ideas of places we could go to celebrate.  I email G a listing for a great cottage in France.  He reports the lunchtime opinions of his colleagues' favorite destinations (one vote for St. John's and one vote for Aruba), etc.

It's like window shopping, a traveler's version of Breakfast at Tiffany's.  It's great because, when decision time comes, we feel like we've almost gone to lots of exciting places, even if we just end up sneaking away for a night in the Marriott a few towns over.

In one of those dreamland discussions, we notice that the TED global conference at Oxford still has openings.

"Ooo, that would be amazing, don't you think?"

(We both ignore the price at this phase of the game.)

And then, G sucks air in through his teeth and sighs.

"Oh, but it lists punting on the itinerary."

I glance up.  "Oh, dear."

Sigh.

. . .

Many years ago, when our marriage had that just-out-of-the-box shine, we visited England together.  In Cambridge we decided to try punting on the river Cam.  (Punting, as you probably know, involves steering a long skinny boat with a long skinny pole while standing balanced in the back, like the gondoliers in Venice.)  We were students living on love, air, and jacket potatoes so we opted to guide ourselves down the river rather than spend the extra money on a guide.

G had no way of knowing the vision that was playing out inside my head--or how long it had been looping through my rose-tinged dreams.  He had no idea that I had snatched him up from where he stood and cast him in a historical BBC drama (the ones he actively avoids) in which we drift peacefully down the river, trailing my fingers in the smooth water, choral music wafting from the King's College Chapel as we drift on toward the Bridge of Sighs. (And by "we" I meant me.)

Yeah, no unrealistic expectations there.

So it turns out that punting is much more difficult than it seems--in fact, quite challenging.  We launched out down the river shakily, ping-ponging wildly between the two banks of the boat-filled river.  Next the pole got stuck in the mushy riverbottom and we spun around and around, pivoting on the stubborn pole. Then, regaining control of the pole we lost control of the boat banging broadside into another boat and knocking that guide into the water. Yes, really. (And by "we" I meant G.) 

I wish I could say I laughed and made it a lighthearted, BBC romance kind of moment.  But, no--it also turns out that I am a terrible boat passenger. I threw all sorts of "helpful" advice-slash-commands in G's direction, irritated that my vision was getting all sullied with the reality of guiding a boat with a pole down a crowded river. This, of course, was highly unhelpful and only made G feel worse.  By the end of the ride we were terse and angry with each other. 

Poor G, saddled with the heavy weight of my unspoken expectations. Notice that all of the actual work of my vision was unfairly placed squarely on his shoulders?  Is it any wonder we have avoided anything involving a boat and high expectations ever since?

Given a chance for a do-over these many years later, I would just lie back and enjoy the view.  I would laugh + jump in with the guy we knocked off (like the dance scene in It's a Wonderful Life!) and offer to buy him lunch. I would offer to take a turn steering us rather than offering backoftheboat advice.  I would lower my expectations and raise my compassion.  Or at least I hope I would.

I think we might be ready for another trip down the river after all.

And by "we," I really mean we.