Spilling It: Marriage Style

Note: This post was originally published by wonderful Jana over at An Attitude Adjustment. 

 If you follow my blog regularly, you know that I “spill it” on a somewhat regular basis. Or as Jana put it, I have a habit of showing my heart in my writing.  I’ve written about my journey to parenthood and how it was I, not my son, who was saved by adoption. I’ve written about losing my mom to cancer and how, six years later, it still breaks my heart a little to walk this earth without her.  I’ve written about the arrival of my baby girl and how just one of her beautiful baby girl smiles can make the daily grind of parenthood fall away so that all I can see is love.  And I’ve written about how hard motherhood really is, how pervasive the guilt and stress can be, and how I sometimes have to work to find a way to see the joy that is right in front of me each day.  With all that writing, there wouldn’t seem to be much left to spill.

But there is one thing I haven’t written about yet. One thing that wraps itself around and works its way through all of the experiences I’ve already shared but has previously seemed too personal to write about publicly.  My marriage.  I haven’t yet written about how I struggle to balance being a mom with being a wife, or how much my husband and I have to work to communicate with each other, or how one of the greatest truths about marriage is the one that I realized only after being married: It’s really freaking hard. And so that’s what I’m writing about today.

My husband, Anders, and I are similar in many important ways, but ten years of marriage has uncovered a multitude of areas in which we couldn’t be more different.  I like to talk my way through and out of problems. Anders doesn’t really like to talk about problems at all.   This has a tendency to create friction in our marriage (and that’s putting it lightly). I’ve tried to solve this little problem by talking through it with Anders, but the wise reader will quickly see the error in that logic.  Further, I am an emotional being who can be a bit over-sensitive. My feelings are easily hurt. I speak in analogies and frequently reference the big picture. Anders is a pragmatic man who likes to tell it like it is; he dislikes hyperbole and drama and he keeps his feelings tucked very closely to his heart.  And then there’s this wee bit of a problem I have with perfectionism that may lead to a tiny amount of criticism directed toward my husband.   I really, really enjoy being right (but let’s face it, this is only because I *am* right most of the time).  Anders would really like to do things his way and only his way; he will be the first to tell you that he does not take kindly to the “helpful” hints and suggestions I hand out whenever I get the chance.

These differences may have been small at first, but parenting has blown them wide open.  Of the many delusions of grandeur that I had about parenting before I was actually a parent, one of the biggest involved effortless parenting in which Anders and I confronted child-related challenges in unison and without disagreement. (Cue the laughing of experienced parents everywhere).  This did not happen. Instead, we quickly found out that our parenting philosophies aren’t actually all that similar. Anders is an amazing dad, and I am a good mom. But we approach parenthood very differently.  He believes that children should obey adults, no questions asked, no talking back.   And he has very high expectations for his children. I am by no means a permissive parent, but I also believe that children need to be children sometimes, that their emotions and feelings should be recognized and valued, and that different situations call for very different responses.  And I am very passionate (some might say controlling) about my parenting method of choice.

So. Let’s summarize. We’ve got a perfectionist, “passionate,” overly-emotional wife who strongly believes in a very different parenting style than her pragmatic, somewhat taciturn husband who wants to do things his way without being questioned.   Anyone see the problem here?   Throw in an energetic  five-year old who like to push his limits, a baby who adds a whole boatload of new stresses into the mix, busy demanding jobs, and the pesky little fact that we disagree about how to even communicate about our challenges, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.  Disaster that manifests in a vicious cycle of tension and sporadic, intense arguments that leave us both exhausted.
And honestly? There have been times when, after an argument in the deep dark of night, I’ve wanted to just give up.  To throw in the towel and surrender to the fact that we are just too different to really make this work.

But then.

The light of the morning comes and I remember.

This is my Anders.  Anders, who I fell in love with over french toast sticks at Burger King our junior year of college.  Anders, who held my hand ten years ago as I made the commitment to love him for better and for worse. Anders, who stood outside my dying mom’s bedroom with me and broke through my paralyzed terror by telling me that every person had a defining moment in their life and that this was mine.  Anders, whose eyes locked onto mine at an adoption information meeting as he pulled out a brochure on Ethiopian adoption and we both realized in the same instant that this is where we would find our son. Anders, who sat next to me as I lay on a hospital bed, recovering from an ectopic pregnancy four years ago and then again two years later as we welcomed our baby girl into the world. Anders, who has seen me at my very best…and my very worst, and who still loves me anyway.   It’s my Anders. He’s my lobster. (If you didn’t watch Friends, you’ll need to disregard that last statement. But you get the point).

So I don’t give up. We don’t give up.  He talks more and I talk less.  He gives my parenting style a whirl and I bite my tongue when I feel that familiar urge to offer help bubble up inside of me yet again. He is more gentle with me.  I am more to the point with him.  For every step forward, there are two steps back. But there’s always another step forward. And that’s the stuff that marriage is made of.  

What I Didn't Know

I knew that kindergarten was going to be a big deal. I knew that I would probably be a little nervous Joseph would probably be a little nervous. I knew that I would experience bittersweet emotions when I drove away after dropping him off that first day. I knew all this.

But I didn't know how proud I would be when my little boy let go of my hand, tears streaming down his face, and walked into his classroom all on his own.

And I didn't know how my heart would swell with joy when I saw him again at the end of that day, took in the huge smile on his face, and heard those sweet, sweet words come out of his mouth: "Mom, that was great! Can I go back?"

And I didn't know that my saddest moment would not be driving away that first day. I didn't know that it would instead come a few days later, as I watched him run off on the playground in the morning, excited beyond measure to play with his new buddies, and then suddenly stop as he scanned the playground for a friend. I didn't know how heart-breaking it would be to watch him stand there, kids swarming all around him but yet paying no attention to him, and see him look so momentarily lost. So alone in a great big world. And how overwhelming it would be to see his friend run over to him, join hands with him, and make my world right again.

And I didn't know how it would feel to be in the house during the day without Joseph here. I had thought that it would be an awesome feeling to have a quiet house while Baby Girl napped. To get to relax and indulge in a cup of coffee while reading articles for two hours without interruption. And I won't lie. It was great. But I just didn't know it would also feel so... empty.

And I didn't know how excited I would be the first time Joseph brought home a book for us to finish coloring and read together. (I *did* know I was a nerd. I really, really love school and pencils and backpacks and homework. Sigh of happiness here).

And I didn't know how relieved I would be to see Joseph stand among the diversity at his new school. This is kind of silly, because it's the main reason we picked the school. But I didn't truly understand how powerful this would be until I stood on that playground and watched Joseph play and knew that he didn't stand out because of the color of his skin and felt the weight of raising a child of color lifted off my shoulders just a bit.

And I didn't know how happy I would be to have this first week under our belt, to be back in routine, and to realize that we have a great year stretching out wide in front of us.