Seven Years In

As of today I have been married seven years, and I would marry my husband again tomorrow if it were possible.


Mainly because we need new stuff. 


I think that may actually be the source of the "seven year itch." You look around your house and realize the adorable cottage you bought and called your "love nest" is now is desperate need of painting and other repairs. You've broken most of the fancy wine glasses you got as wedding presents, and at least some of the china has chips. Your child(ren) have broken at least one thing you loved, but that is too expensive and impractical to replace. The hand towels are now being used as cleaning rags, and the bath towels that haven't been accidentally bleached just look worn. The chafing dish that an Aunt gave you is still in perfect condition though, mostly because you have never had a reason to "chafe." 


Then you look at your spouse. Like your towels they are worn as well. You both have likely put on some weight.  You've probably lost (or in the case of women, gained) some hair. There is no mystery about what goes on in the bathroom. Every bad habit has been exposed, every argument hashed out at least once, and every nerve has been frayed. If you don't have a strong marriage, I can see why some people would feel something needs to be "scratched." 


Luckily, I have a strong marriage. I can honestly say I love my husband as much, if not more than I did the day I married him, and I know for a fact I like him a lot more. Our friendship has gotten deeper over the years, mainly because the mystery has disappeared. Oh, and because we've never lost our senses of humor. Take last night for example: I was brining a chicken (I am very fancy) and it would not stay under the water. I asked Ryan what he thought I should do. 
      "Put a heavy bowl on top of it." I did, and it worked. 
      "See, that's why I married you," I said. 
      "Yep," he replied,"because I'm a problem solver, and you're a problem maker."


That never would have flown during year two.


I guess that's the trade off. While the shine wears off all of the presents that came with the wedding, over time the marriage itself becomes the gift. Such a gift, in fact, that I don't feel cheesy writing sentences like that one. I actually believe it to be true. Maybe that's what I'll use to comfort myself from now on every time an appliance breaks, or Meg floods the bathroom and ruins the rug, or we realize we need to repair a wall: "this is making my marriage stronger." 


Still, a new down comforter would be nice... 


Happy Anniversary, babe. 

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Color and Race

I bungled my first conversation with Meg about race. To be fair though, I wasn't expecting it -- especially not in the middle of watching "Toy Story 3."

We were watching the movie the other night when Meg asked me if Woody's hat is black. No, I said, it's brown. Then she asked about Mr. Potato Head, was he black? Nope, I told her, he's brown. She asked about slinky dog next, and Mrs. Potato Head, and about Buster (the dog in the film). I told her none of them were black, they were all brown.

Then it dawned on me what was going on.

Somewhere Meg had picked up that she is black, and that it has to do with the color of her skin. Being the smart kid she is, who knows her colors, including the difference between black and brown, there was now some confusion. And I was doing nothing to help the situation.

I paused the movie and looked at Meg.

"Baby," I said, "your skin is the color brown. People may call it black, but it's color is brown. And no matter what color it is it is wonderful skin, and I love you very much."

"Is your skin brown," she asked.

"No, it's pink," I said. I figured that would be easier than explaining "pasty."

"Is Daddy's skin brown?"

"No, his is pink too, but we are your Mommy and Daddy and we love you."

Then she asked me to turn the movie back on and snuggled in.

After she went to bed I laid awake for about two hours after that wondering how I could have better handled it. Her skin isn't black, but she is. That black really has nothing to do with color and more with racial construct. That there are some people that have much darker skin than hers that will never be identified as black.

I started wondering if I should have brought up Dr. King. Then I remembered she is two.

I am hoping the next time I am better prepared. I am also hoping the next time is as innocent, and doesn't involve her feelings being hurt because of racism, or feelings of rejection due to a realization about the differences in our colors and what they mean.

I know those conversations are coming, I am just hoping that I am better at this when they do.

Oh, and that she still wants to snuggle with me after we are done talking.

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