love and socks

One pair of socks on the other side of the bed this morning.  His, the keeper of my heart. The one who wakes up three hours before the rest of us and eats breakfast in the a quiet house and dresses for work in the dark.

Once I read a story about a couple on the verge of martial ruin.  I can’t tell you where I read it, maybe you can tell me.  In the counselor’s office, she unleashed years of bottled up frustration because every single day she had to pick up his $($&# socks and if he just respected her, he would pick up his own dirty socks. So the years went by and she felt unappreciated and the resentment burrowed deep down and rotted away at precious things.  Then something else happened, but I forget, maybe he almost died, maybe they just came to a great understanding and healing, I can’t recall.  All I know is that after this dramatic turning point in their marriage, everyday when she picked up his socks, she no longer muttered hostility under her breath, but she thanked God that he was there to leave his dirty socks on the floor.

It was a moving, life-changing story, but I only remember the sock.  The socks, perhaps that is the whole point?  How the small things are the big things, when it comes to love and marriage, And by love and marriage, I mean all of life too.

At the same time every afternoon, the key goes in and the door rattles.  Two little creatures practically jump out of their skin.  He barely has one second to take off his coat and set his things down, before they are in his arms. Then for as long as possible, there they stay.  Daddy is a commodity worth more than gold around here.

I fill the French press with steaming water and watch the dark grounds dance and soak and become one. A few minutes later, I pour two mugs and bring one to him where he is the bottom layer of the pile. 

Next to the yellow chair, his socks and shoes are cast off on the floor. 

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the date.

On Friday night he came home from work, a long 60 hour week, the usual kind, and with our daughter in his arms, the one who demands to be there within one second of him walking in the door, he stood in front of me and said, I have a very important question.  Will you go out with me tomorrow night?  I hesitated only because my thought was, what about those two kids that are always hanging around here. I was then informed that he had arranged for my mom to come and watch the kids.  Well, in that case, my answer, absolutely yes.

Then he handed me a dark chocolate sea salt candy bar.

Saturday evening, after another long day of work for him, he walked in the door holding my favorite flowers.  I mean, alright, husband. I’ll go out with you.

And so it happened that a 8 o’clock in the evening, this old couple ventured out the door, hand in hand, child free. How wild of us. This hour usually finds us sitting on the couch, children in bed, drinking tea or hot cocoa, doing wild things like knitting and reading.  Don’t be fooled, we’re not even eighty.

Our top secret destination was this hidden gem of an Italian restaurant not far from Uptown.  We enjoyed toasted ravioli, chicken fontina with this incredible homemade pasta and beautiful mushroom wine sauce, and then tiramisu, my other true love.  And like kings and queens or just wealthy people who have other people care for their children during meals, we ate slowly and tasted every gorgeous bite of uninterrupted flavor.  The luxury of leisurely eating is finer than gold, because even I have to break my own rule of not holding children while I’m eating, on occasion.  I’m serious about that rule, I am.  Because, my children are lovely and amazing, but a hungry mama is not a happy one and a mother who gets to sit in a chair all alone and drink coffee in the afternoon is the key to a pleasant home. I’m also serious about that.

And thus my handsome husband gave me both of those things on this glorious December evening.  Post dinner, we drove through the weaving roads near Lake Calhoun in search of Christmas lights. And we gazed in the open windows, like any decent person would do and decided that most people have bad art on the walls of their grand homes.

This was also the night were my husband willingly tried on an argyle sweater at the store, and I decided that it wasn’t him.   That sweater stayed at the store, making it officially the first time in history that a husband willingly tried on such a sweater and a wife decided against it.  Let the record show, this happened on December 17, 2011.

All this occurred one crazy, perfect night in December, when a boy asked out a girl, who was already his wife.

my husband, the sandwich genius.

This is the husband.  He’s cute.  My favorite husband, I only have one and plan on keeping him, but still he’s my favorite.

In addition to being the kindest and most patient person I know, he makes the very best sandwiches.  He spent some quality time working at a deli in his younger years.  And, when I say younger, yes, he just turned thirty this month.

He knows all about the fine details of spreading the condiments and placing the meat, cheese, and toppings just so to create what he calls, “flavor pockets.”

I call it delicious.

Today, we had grilled turkey, bacon, onion, with pepper jack cheese sandwiches. 

It won’t be the last time, of that I’m certain.

He even makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches better than I do.  He has a  top secret scientific method of the right amount of peanut butter and jelly…  I think.

He’s a keeper.

Oh, and he lets me sleep an extra hour in the mornings while he gets up with the little boy…. and actually knows how to clean the bathroom, and humors me when I need someone to talk to about Grey’s Anatomy.

Jackpot.