Anecdotal Antidote

There seems to be a case of the newlyweds going around. Much like polio vaccinations, the antidote contains a strain of the contagion. You hafta get hitched to get inoculated. It takes about a year or so for the symptoms to decrease. Then it lays dormant in your system till death do you part.

The masses are mostly concerned with those recently infected, and those who have successfully managed their diagnosis for fifty or more years. We are simply teary-eyed over couples who have been married for fifty, sixty, seventy-plus years. They’re an inspiration. On the other end of the spectrum, we feel the need to check in with those newlyweds to make sure they’re managing OK. Maybe they need us to bring them a pot of Chicken Soup for the Just-Married Soul (CSFTJMS). We give them a studious once-over to make sure they seem sufficiently dewy-eyed and affectionate toward one another. And it’s always the same question (newlyweds, say it with me):
“How’s married life?”

Bleh.

Go ahead. Ask a newly-married couple how many times they’ve been asked this exact question. I dare you. Now, here’s the really weird thing: How many newlyweds are going to offer an earth-shattering answer to this question? Even if they’re two months into this gig, and it’s going horridly off the rails, do you think this question paired with a goofy smile on the face of the inquirer is going to solicit any kind of vulnerable answer? Um, no. Best case scenario, you happen to be the first person to ask them this question, and they’re excited to answer with some adorably cute anecdotal proof of their wedded bliss. More likely, you’ll be the 174th person to ask them this week, and they’re so sick of slapping on the million-watt smile and telling cutesie stories that they kinda grimace-glare-mutter something unintelligible which necessitates you administer an emergency dose of CSFTJMS.

This is really not a post about the One Yearers though. This is really just a long-winded segue, but before I drop the newlyweds like a sack of biohazard pathogens, may I make a suggestion for some alternatives to asking the much-dreaded question, “How’s married life?”

Hows abouts:
“What is one thing that has surprised you about married life?”
OR
“What adjustment has been the most challenging?”
OR
“How can I pray for you?”
OR
“Do you have any leftover trendy cake pops from the reception? I have a craving.”

OK? OK.
Moving right along.

While I remember that repetitive question in our early months of marriage, I don’t recall the last time someone asked me. A couple’s first year very well may have significant challenges, but it’s the following 49+ years that will fortify or crumble the castle. Most couples will outlast their first anniversary, but many don’t make it to their matrimonial booster shots.

Booster shots are a tricky thing. I’m sure my childhood vaccinations have worn off, broken down, fallen apart, whatever it is they do when they’re too old. I think I’ve received a couple booster shots of something as an adult…?* If someone hadn’t walked up with a stabby-mabob and administered my whatever booster, I wouldn’t have bothered to ever get it. I don’t spend my days charting immunization boosters and how to maximize their effectiveness. I don’t give them a second thought. I barely given them a first thought. It’s more like a fleeting blip on my brainwaves.

Shots. Blip. Ouch. Blip. Is it too early to have chocolate? Silly me! It’s never too early to have chocolate. Blip-blip.

I’ll pause to validate that I might be losing my dear non-vaxer readers. The analogy gets a little muddy if you’re opposed to them, yeah? Just substitute essential oils for vaccinations, and call it good. Group hug.

The nuptial excitement wears off, and without proper preventative measures, the commitment breaks down. The initial megadose of matrimony becomes diluted and risks falling apart. In order for continued success, immunizations require boosters. Marriages, likewise. If I expend no further energy and thought than minimal blips on the brainwaves, there won’t be many anniversaries to celebrate. Do I keep a watchful eye on the health of the relationship, looking for ways to maximize our strength as a couple? Or, just like my booster shot, have I completely ignored it, assuming my laissez-faire posture is enough to avoid calamity?

I wonder what would happen if, instead of inundating the newlyweds, we also asked those who are due for a booster, “How’s married life?” Now there would be some conversation.


Seventeen and counting,

Cynthia



*Yes, I realize I should probably have some sort of a clue as to what the nice lady is jabbing into my arm, but confrontation is not my strong suit and I wanted to be brave for my girls to see it wasn’t so bad.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Bookholder

There’s something anticipative about wrapping my hands around the spine and fore edge of a novel. It beckons the senses and stirs the soul. The possibilities are boundless. The weight of the volume whispers of uncharted lands, adventures that beckon; of elation, agony, redemption, beauty. Anything can be extracted from the pages.

Despite my hearty tribute, I’ve always struggled to read books that challenge me, books with substance. I wanted to be someone who read books that stuck to my ribs, but I always gravitated toward...fluff. Instead of decadent twelve course meals on delicate bone China, I was settling for sketchy potluck appetizers on flimsy paper plates. You know the ones I mean. Toasted salmonella puffs with a hint of E. coli merengue plated with a tangy botulism reduction which rapidly saturates the 1-ply plate. Check please.

This year I wanted to feast. No more bland fare that’s been sitting out too long. The goal: fifty-two books in one year, consisting only of books I’ve either never read or never finished. My list is comprised of a smorgasbord of genres that would lead you to assume the curator was a hyperactive toddler hopped up on a dozen Pixy Stix and released unsupervised in a bookstore for a shopping spree. I won’t even attempt to explain why I’ve chosen the books I’ve chosen for this year. Accept the method, folks.

It’s Week 37 and I’ve completed thirty-one titles. Perhaps I won’t meet my reading goal, but I’ve already succeeded in something far superior to arbitrary quotas; I’ve proven to myself that I am most capable of digesting quite the literary meal. I’ve dined on the theological eloquence of Lewis, the worlds imagined by Tolkien, and the cry for social justice of Dickens. I’ve sunk my teeth into the battles between men, and the gods who interfered. I’ve wandered through the well-worn paths of Prince Edward Island and come face-to-face with IT. I’ve cried despite knowing the fate allotted to Beth and Charlotte alike. I’ve cringed through dystopian landscapes, and nodded along to uplifting prose.

In short, my palette is greatly expanded, and I’m left, not uncomfortably stuffed as one who gorged until pained, but rather as one whose appetite has merely been fanned into flame. Each entrée merely whets the appetite for the next literary flavor.

Yes, I think I shall peruse the menu a bit more. What’s your recommendation?

Turning a Page,

Cynthia

Let Them (Re)Visited: Let Them Get Dirty

Let Them (Re)visited is an opportunity for me to eat crow or crow all the louder regarding topics I covered during my Let Them series. Let's see what happens, shall we?

Many moons ago, we lived in the middle of the city. We had modern conveniences like sidewalks and asphalt. We were greeted in the morning, noon, and night with sirens. We had a decent-sized yard, all things considered. Getting dirty was downright luxurious. It was like winning the lottery when mom said to play in the mud.

That was then.

This is now.

We have two and a half acres...of dirt. Dirt roads, dirt driveway, dirt-covered bushes. Basically, it's dirt as far as the eye can see, broken up by desert growth and our lovely 3 foot berm of poop. You see, we bought this dirt with poop factories animals in mind. So we're fortifying our city gates with the materials they provide. You want on our property? You're gonna hafta scale the poo. May the best man win.

We're classy people. Most of my children take Olympian leaps up Poo Mountain and arise victorious at its peak, complete with celebratory fist pumps. I'm trying to curb this bad habit. I really am. But I've had better luck nailing Jell-o to the wall. I've also caught them sliding down its treacherous sides like it's the black diamond run of poo skiing. This is accomplished on feet if I'm lucky...backsides if we have house guests. 

Yes, I have to remind my children to not show off our poo pile to their friends. Yes, I've lectured my children about inviting their friends to scale up, roll down, and generally fling the contents of Poo Mountain. Yes, we are blacklisted from delicate play dates. 

Then there's shoveling manure against the wind, which always results in a special full-body "dusting." I wish I could tell you how many times I've told a particular child to go shower off, because there's poop in her hair. She acts like this is ludicrous.

I showered yesterday!

Yes, but you've conquered Poo Mountain (congratulations, by the way-your gold medal is in the mail) and flung manure dust all over creation, sweet child. Contracting dysentery is not on our bucket list.

Dirty nails and smudgy faces are a daily occurrence around here. “Shoe checks” are mandatory. But mixed in with all that dirt are great life lessons woven throughout childhood memories. Hard work, the responsibilities of farm life, the joys of training a new animal, and the sorrows of burying one. The struggles are greater. The earth oftentimes resists yielding to the shovel, as we are wont to protest the shock of the Gardener's spade slicing away that which would stunt our purpose. Yet, the rewards are richly gratifying. Moldy kitchen scraps and manure mingle with cultivated soil and thoughtfully sown seeds to reap an inspiring bounty. When what we see is degradation and filth staring back at us in the mirror, perhaps He sees timely growth wrung from adversity.

In the end, we traded our sidewalks and asphalt for neighborhood games of tag on a bumpy back road; our sirens for the silence; and our yard for dirt. Glorious, filthy dirt.

And more showers.

Applying Soap Liberally,

Cynthia