There are a lot of things I’m lucky to have. Like a parent-teacher conference where I get to hear that Roan has been shining his Roan light bright and warm for others to bask in. He’s a good kid, that dude. Maybe his innate zen goodness has something to do with me and (more likely) maybe it has nothing to do with me. But I’m the one who gets to hear about it, so I soak it up. I’m really grateful for the kid he is.
I’m thankful for the way Smitty was shouting, “Hello, Bwook-Ah-Lee-iinnn” (Brooklyn) from the swings yesterday or how Sheppy tackled Smith with hugs and kisses today to help erase his tantruming brother’s tears. I get to watch my children have these moments, not all of them sweetness and rainbows but these moments – that show me who they are. And lucky me, all signs point to them being pretty decent humans. I’m grateful I get to be around for those moments.
Not to diminish my love for these three sons, but my highest point of gratitude is pointed in the direction of the guy I married. That guy. I’m just lucky that he’s stuck around as long as he has, because truthfully I’m not sure many people would find being married to me all that amusing. To wit: Anson was lucky enough to be on the end of this winning statement over the weekend, from your humble author:
I wish I was married to someone…more like…ME! I wish I could be married to myself!
Awesome, right? You’re probably now thinking about how if only you could be married to a woman who wanted to be married to herself all else would melt away like so much butter on pancakes. I know. I’m awesome.
And let me be clear when I admit that I’m ridiculous. Just so we’re clear.
You see, I was “sleeping in”. Which basically means that I stay in bed for about an extra 1/2 hour to 45 minutes while Anson takes the boy-army upstairs and starts the day. It’s a weekend tradition, one I feel like I earn by being Captain Amazing during the weekday mornings. Seriously. You should see what I can do in a 20 minute school-morning crunch even before coffee cup number one. Captain. Freaking. Amazing.
So it goes – I lay around in bed and hear screaming, giggling, wrestling, and singing going on above me. Usually I try to go back to sleep but this weekend I wanted to join in. I wanted to go up stairs and sit on the couch and watch the crazy boy show unfold in front of my sleepy eyes. But as soon as I arrived on the scene, all the voices started at once. “I want!” “Can we…?” “Up please!” “Mamamamamamamama….mom….Balla balla balla MOM!”
And I’m back at work, really. This is what I do and not what I wanted at all. Anson quickly disappeared, chagrined by the bacon, pancake and orange juice bomb that had gone off in the kitchen and furiously started cleaning. All the boys started climbing on me and nobody had offered her majesty a coffee yet.
This was not what I came up here for. I wanted to watch them like they were a TV show, not be part of the action. Couldn’t that just be what happened?? Why oh why were all these boys expecting me to act like their mother when I just wanted to be more like…a guest?
I stomped into the kitchen and gruffly informed Anson that I did not want to be in charge right now thank you, and that I am having one particular wish right now, that is, to be married to myself. Because myself would have had the boys fed, dressed, probably on their way out the door to the park and definitely not naked with pancakes stuck literally to both their face and buttock cheeks.
I reiterated that I’d like very much to have myself as a wife. Because then I could kick back and let myself do all the work because myself is the one who pretty much does it all.
Although. If I spoke to myself like that, myself would tell myself to go do something with myself that’s probably not at all possible. But Anson just sort of listened, handed me a cup of coffee, and backed slowly out of the kitchen. Smart dude.
After the circus left the house for the park, I wound down a bit and considered the morning. Then some things occurred to me. Anson works all week, then on the weekends glues himself to his kids and furiously tries to do small kind things for me. If I (seriously, accidentally) topple a full coffee cup on the floor, he pushes me out of the way to clean it. If I’m seeming overwhelmed he swoops in and tries to help. If a headache is hinted at, his hands find their way to my neck not to throttle me for being so grumpy but to tease the pain out of my shoulders. He doesn’t fire back at my nonsense, and usually lets me cross all sorts of stupid lines before he retreats and gives me the space I need to consider how I’m using my words.
In the quiet of a mostly destroyed house smelling of bacon and pancakes, I realized that there are probably some awesome things about being married to me. But there are some other things that most people would probably not be able to bear, yet Anson does. He continues to show up every day, 100% for his kids, and even more importantly, works really hard to let me know he’d rather be nowhere else. He works really hard to let me know he’d rather be with no one else. And he works really hard to not laugh at me when I proclaim ridiculous things about the joys of being married to myself.
For the record, I would probably not even make it to a second date with myself so there’s that.
This year, all my gratitude for all the goodness in my life goes to Anson Call. This man I married twelve years ago and stays with me every day. He’s a better person than I deserve to have, and exactly as good of a person as my sons deserve to call Dad. I’m so so so thankful that he’s with me.