Just Call Me Sarah "All Heart" Wells

Oh no.

That's what I thought to myself as the clock ticked closer to the cut-off point of a clip from Jerry Maguire, this morning's edition of the At The Movies series at our church, seconds closer to when I had set the video up to automatically shut off, right before Cuba Gooding, Jr. announces, "I'm all heart..." and then drops a giant M-Fer.  Oh no, I thought to myself, what if the DVD doesn't stop at that 40-second mark?  What if, even though I tested this--twice--to make sure it would shut off at just the right moment, what if it keeps playing?!  Oh no.

There were five clips from Jerry Maguire this morning, and our pastor had jotted down, to the second, when the clips should stop and start.  We rehearsed together the importance of the DVD times for each clip before service started.  ProPresenter makes it easy to do this.  All you do is set the time it is supposed to begin, and set the time that it is supposed to end.  Done.  No problem.

But.  What if this time the DVD keeps playing? That would be horrible!  The college students were back for the first Sunday since May.  The audience below was filled with regulars and lots of new visitors, "It's so great to see so many new faces today!" said one of the associate pastors during announcements, "Welcome to 5 Stones!"  What if the DVD keeps playing, and the whole church watches the end of this scene?  

And so I positioned the mouse arrow over the play/pause button and prepared myself to stop the DVD just in case we hit the 40-second mark and it kept playing.  We hit the 40-second mark.  I panicked.  I clicked the play/pause button.  It kept playing.  "No heart?!" Cuba Gooding, Jr. said. OH NO.

"No heart?!" Cuba Gooding, Jr., said, "I'm ALL HEART m*f*!"

EEEEEEEEEEEKK!  I shrieked, frantically clicking the play/pause button, the stop button, any button to make it stop, make it stop, JUST MAKE IT STOP!  And then it was over, the church collectively gasping and laughing, the pastor laughing and apologizing and asking for forgiveness and the congregation granting it, like they do because we have a rockin' merciful grace-filled congregation. From the balcony behind my computer screen I yelled down, I am so sorry. 

There are only a couple of times I can recall being utterly and completely mortified.  There was the time in middle school when I tripped over my own feet going up the stairs with two cheerleader/uber-popular girls behind me and let out a GEEZ! as if they had caused me to stumble, and they laughed and said, "What?! We didn't do anything!"  And at a high school dance camp, after rehearsing all week our team's routine and lecturing, as an officer, the whole group about the timing of the last sequence, I was the only one who shot out with a toe touch while everyone else stayed crouched down, and then I swore on the way off the stage--possibly costing us our showmanship trophy, or team spirit trophy, or some other acknowledgement of positive behavior.  

This is particularly amusing to me now because I am bad at swearing.  Meaning, I don't do it naturally.  I am not a good swearer.  I am funny when I even try, too formal, too stilted, awkward.  They just don't roll off my tongue the way they do for other people.  

So.  You can imagine my horror as a church with pews filled with people listened to Cuba Gooding, Jr., deliver a pronounced and passionate F-bomb.  The mother of all F-bombs, even.

Humiliation burned on my cheeks.  I really, really hate screwing up, privately or publicly, consciously or unconsciously.  My entire body hates it, and as our pastor graciously proceeded through the rest of the sermon (a really great one, mind you), my hands shook, adrenaline pumping, head shaking, tear ducts leaking impulsively.  omg.  That just happened.  omg.  Somehow I managed to queue up the other movie clips and slides for the sermon and shake it off.  Somehow.  And after it was over, thank God, over, our laid back church embraced me with laughter and grace.

It was and continues to be hard for me to receive grace.  I want the A, I want more than good, more than good enough, more than great; I want perfect.  I expect perfect from myself.  Not from others, no, I totally get that we're not perfect and everyone messes up and blah blah blah, yes, other people, but not me.  And so in high school when confronted with the concept of grace and forgiveness through Christ for the murderer and minor-vice-committer both, I said, No. I spat, No way.  I wanted condemnation for the sinner and crowns for me.  I've earned it.

And then I started to pay attention to my daily behavior.  Every time I tried not to fall short, it happened.  Oh no.  I was not perfect.  And it happened every single day!  Oh NO.  I fell short all of the time.  This was really disturbing to me.  How could I be good enough for God?  I failed again and again, I would always fail, now that I've failed there's no HOPE of ever being perfect.  And then, in my freshman year of college, I thought I might be pregnant.  I might have been pregnant, for all I know, and maybe miscarried, given my record of miscarriages now.  I don't know.  

Laughter and grace.  Christ is all about grace, and I suspect he also laughs. The opposite of grace and laughter is condemnation.  Frowny face.  When I felt like I was surely condemned, life ruined, career trajectory altered forever because of what I had done as a freshman in college, what I received instead was love. Mercy. Grace.

But still.  "No heart?! I'm all heart!"  God, help me.  In some churches, you might expect lightning bolts.  In mine, laughter and grace.  I serve a great, big, amused Lord of the universe, and my church is his joyful, caring, graceful and sometimes embarrassing bride, but wow, she's just beautiful, isn't she?

Well, Hello There

Would ya look at that?  It's been a month.  The MFA summer residency was here and then gone, those two weeks that last two months and then feel like just days once it's over.  I think it might have been the smoothest residency we've run since 2007, which is saying something, since I was also in class this time.  It was an extremely productive and inspiring two weeks, to say the least.  And then, I hopped on a jet plane to North Carolina to meet my lovely family for a week of vacation.

Oh, sweet, sweet vacation.  How I miss you.

While I was on vacation, I devoured The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby and The Boys of My Youth by Jo Ann Beard... and also crab cake sandwiches. I've wanted to read Beard's collection of essays since I read "The Fourth State of Matter" in Tell It Slant last semester, and I was not disappointed. The trouble is that now I'm feeling that intimidation that comes from reading really, really good writing--will anything I write measure up? Ever? I'm tempted to write everything in present tense now, though, so watch out.

I also started to read Madeleine L'Engle's Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. I read a book of hers about her 40-year-long marriage over the summer, and I gathered that probably Madeleine and I would be BFF's. I was right. I struggle to write about faith, mostly out of fear that I will come across too sentimental, too didactic, or too cliche, and that fear is extremely stifling. I tend to stare at my screen and then sigh dramatically before typing "God." In L'Engle, I've found a kindred spirit, willing to speak honestly and frankly about faith and doubt, love and art. I'm really enjoying this book.

While I was on vacation last week, I had a lot more time to write and read than I usually do, and it was great to take a more focused look at the work. I finished a first draft of an essay about camping that I'm excited about, and I played around with some revisions to other essays.  But most of the time, I did this:

Which is exactly how I hope to spend heaven-- on a beach, looking for shark's teeth, chasing children through the incoming tide.

Confidence vs. Arrogance

Any time I write about self-image, weight lifting, exercising, our diets, publications, and anything at all happy, the following thoughts ricochet about in my brain after hitting "publish" on my blog:

• People are going to think I'm arrogant and self-centered with all this, "Look how joyful and healthy I am" stuff.
• Am I arrogant and self-centered?
• I better write a sarcastic and funny post about all of my faults and how much I suck.

So, immediately after I wrote about how good weight lifting was making me feel and the degree of self-confidence that gave me the power and strength to stretch into yoga poses I'd never been able to hold before, I wondered if what I said was arrogant.  Am I a braggart?

And then this verse came to mind, one of my favorite Bible verses,

"Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6).

There is a huge difference between arrogance and confidence, and an equally huge difference between humility and self-deprecation. 

While confidence and humility can walk hand-in-hand, joyfully celebrating the good work that you are while realizing you aren't perfect and that's okay, in fact that's just right because you are still in-progress, and this growing and refining and shaping is beauty and art and the stuff of life,

 

 

arrogance and self-deprecation propel away from each other.  Arrogance and self-deprecation propel you away from others.  Arrogance and self-deprecation speak opposite lies in the same direction: one says I'm so much better than you. The other says I'm so much worse than you. 

 

Confidence and humility tend to operate from a position of neutrality: I am someone who matters.  You are someone who matters.  I will treat you as if you matter.  You will treat me as if I matter.  Because we matter. 

 

Ironically, both arrogance and self-deprecation turn the spotlight on ourselves.  Look at me, I'm awesome, so much more awesome than you! or Look at me, I suck!

 

Confidence is knowing that you are a good work.  Arrogance is thinking you are the hottest piece of work to walk the planet and thus you need no more work at all.

 

People always say, "Ivan the Terrible. Oh, he's so terrible, oh, I'm so scared of Ivan, he's bad news." When in fact, the correct translation is, "Ivan the Awesome." - Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smythsonian

 

Humility is willing to wash the feet of a stranger.  Self-deprecation lies down on the floor and begs to be stepped on, and when you tell it no, you don't deserve to be stepped on, you're great!, it says, no, no, no, really, I am a doormat.  Step on me.  Self-deprecation downgrades its worth so that others will take pity and deliver praise for how awesome you really are.

 

Unlike arrogance and self-deprecation, confidence and humility don't carry around a yard stick to see how they measure up with others.

 

No more measuring.  Who are you?  Who were you created to be?  Are you walking in that direction?  Keep walking. 

 

Don't think of yourself more highly than you ought, and don't think of yourself more lowly than you ought. 

 

Consider yourself and be confident.  Consider others and be humble.

A Little Heavy Lifting Goes a Long Way

I started a new workout regimen a few weeks ago after months of doing hardly anything at all except an occasional yoga class.  I had a hard time figuring out when I could fit in exercise during the spring without running from work to pick up the kids from daycare, to cook dinner, to eat, to pack up and drive to the gym, and then to home for baths and bedtime.  While Brandon was on the road, there just wasn't a way to do that without eating takeout, which kinda defeats the purpose of working out.  Kinda.

But Brandon has been mostly home since the end of May (yayayayayay), and as we've readjusted to living together again, it's occurred to me that, yes, maybe I can go to the gym for an hour a couple of times a week.  I'm also on summer hours, which gives me an additional hour of daylight at home with the kids (we work 7:30-4 during the summer, with a half-hour lunch), plus the kids have been going to bed a little later than they would on a school night.  AND since Brandon is around more, I don't feel like going to the gym when he is around is going to cut into quality time together.

I can come up with lots of excuses not to work out, and they are pretty legitimate excuses.

Over the last few weeks, though, I started weight lifting after hearing my friends talk about weight training.  They recommended The New Rules of Lifting for Women: Lift Like a Man, Look Like a Goddess.  With a title like that, who wouldn't want to give it a try?  Good job, marketing department at Avery Trade.  The book offers a case for lifting, a helpful training program that includes using all of the equipment on the "man's side" of the gym-- barbells and dumbbells and benches weight machines-- along with a helpful diet and nutrition guide.

We've adopted rather healthy eating habits in the Wells household since last spring when we tried the Whole 30 program, and we probably stick to a Paleo diet 70-80% of the time (Friday is always pizza night... I still eat ice cream because it is heaven in a bowl... etc.).  My metabolism must be relatively high, and my genes must be pretty decent.  I'd be okay with my figure for the most part if I stopped drinking all of that whiskey with my husband (but who wants to do that?).

Benefits of good nutrition aside, I like the idea of being toned and in shape. Weight lifting is something I haven't done much of before, besides bench pressing Henry on the floor and the occasional half-hearted dumbbell workout after a half-hour on the elliptical.  So I started this workout.  I walked into the gym the first time, my textbook on lifting in hand, and self-consciously maneuvered from station to station.  I felt like I would probably hurt myself, and the boys with their pecs and their biceps would offer to help and then snicker later.  I felt kind of blubbery and noodle-y.  Unsure.  Insecure.  I felt the way I did on the drill team in high school - lanky and out of place.

But after the first workout, my muscles burned and tensed.  And although I did manage to drop the long metal bar used for lat pull-downs on top of my head in the second workout (twice), I was starting to get a feel for the gym equipment.  I'm on my fifth workout now, and here's why I'm going to keep at it:

Last night at yoga, I held eagle pose, twice.  I held half-moon pose with the help of a block.  The week before, I held crane pose.  After an hour of a challenging yoga class I was ready to keep going, partly because my body is actually stronger physically, but mostly because I felt confident.

I can lift the weights on the big-boy side of the gym.  I can squat a barbell with weights on the ends. I can do twelve regular push-ups.  I feel stronger.  My muscles exist and they hurt a little but mostly they are making themselves known, maybe even celebrating being used for something more than carrying in groceries.  I don't think I look any different.  I am pretty sure I've actually gained weight (the scale can go weigh itself).  But that's fine, because it isn't just muscle I'm building.  It's strength, physically and mentally.

I talked after yoga for a little bit with a friend about this holistic approach to health.  I think we can be strong spiritually and strong mentally, but if our bodies are weak and we lack self-esteem, those other areas of our person aren't going to operate as well as they could.  Our whole person wants to be healthy, and if one area of our lives is out of whack, it's going to affect the rest of our bodies.  

This is true in a negative way and it's true in a positive way - so if everything is operating decently and I'm getting by with my pretty good health, adding in a new routine or a new habit (maybe meditation, prayer, running, weight lifting, yoga, cutting out soda, eating more vegetables, completing more crossword puzzles, reading more books)... whatever it is, is sure to enforce the other areas of strength in my life.  I might actually be able to do more than I thought.  And that might actually build my confidence.  And that might make me feel kind of good at the end of the day.  

I can come up with lots of excuses not to work out, and they are pretty legitimate excuses.  But if a few hours of strength building can buy me more energy for my kids and husband while improving my overall self-image, then maybe that's a good investment of that time.  And I can't wait to post photos of myself looking like this:

JUST KIDDING.

Looking for the Goods

First off, sarahmwells.com is broken, and I'm unhappy about it.  I kept hoping it would reset itself or just reappear, and after multiple attempts to contact customer service people at Google and at GoDaddy.com, I have given up, deleted the domain name entirely, and with any luck it'll become available again in the next couple of days, so I can register it once more for my use.

This is one of the reasons I haven't written lately.  Another reason is because I've had two weeks of vacation over the last three (I wedged in five workdays somewhere in there), and most of this time has been dedicated to my husband and the three little people.  Heavenly, I tell you.  And the last reason is that I actually have been writing, quite a bit, but it's all super-secret-awesome stuff.  Not really.  It's for school, though, which means it is hopefully going toward my thesis, which is HOPEFULLY going to turn into a book.  

But before any of that can happen, I need to go yell at the circus animals hooting in the room above me.

Sigh. Okay. Threats of separation delivered.  I don't know why it is that they respond so well to this threat - I would think it a treat to get the whole room to one's self while the other one snuggles into my bed.  I like having the bed all to myself... once in a while.

I have the bed all to myself this weekend, a foretaste of things to come.  I admit I'm already panicking about Brandon's road trip days beginning again in August.  In fact, my heart rate just jumped a little.  It feels like summer is already over now that my vacation days are nearing an end and the MFA residency is approaching.  Before I know it, we'll be back to soccer games with an angry toddler and the husband out of the house half the week.

The quickened pace of life that will begin in a few short weeks makes me tired already.  I don't think I've had a long enough reprieve.  I don't want to feel like a single parent for half of the week again.  It is not easy.  

There are times, of course, when it isn't so bad.  A few weeks ago as Brandon worked to settle back into the full-time dad routine, every. little. thing. I. did. was. wrong.  Every thing.  Not wrong, but different from what he does, I should say.

"Did you put my water glass into the dishwasher, Gary?" he teased one morning after I had prepared breakfast, loaded the dishwasher, and cleared off the counter.  His dad, Gary, is known for the quick snatching and cleansing of the glassware, almost before your lips have left the rim of the cup.  I sighed.  "... The kitchen looks nice," he said with a smile, reaching to pinch my butt.

"When do you go back to work?!" I squeaked.  "Can't you call ESPN and ask them for work?"  This, after counting down the days until he was done with work for the summer.  This, after a mental breakdown this spring, after childcare challenges and scheduling conflicts and children who miss him and ME ME ME who missed him over and over again.  Go back to work, I said.  Leave me alone.

We laughed and squeezed each other.  "You have to stop critiquing everything I do, husband of mine. It's driving me bonkers."

I had gotten used to running things my way without Brandon around.  And then he was back, full-scale, with not much to distract him from the household and our children except the occasional round of golf and softball.  We had gotten out of step and in turn kept stepping on each other's toes as we did or did not take out the recycling, did or did not load the dishwasher, did or did not take Henry to the potty fifteen minutes or forty-five minutes after the last time he went.  

The trouble is now that we've worked out a few of these kinks, now that we've learned how to live together again, kinda, well, now he's going to go away again.  This is not the norm, this more laid back summer of temperate weather and short-distance road trips, of golf and barbecues and softball and boats and drinks with friends.

No, the norm is more like the last two days alone with the kids after Brandon left for the weekend to spend time with a friend.  The norm is me and my three little people eating pizza on a picnic bench at the park, walking across the lawn for ice cream, home in time for baths and bed.  The norm is me and my three little people on the couch for Saturday morning cartoons, the slow rise for scrambled eggs with cheese, and then a ride around northeast Ohio, to the tall ships in Cleveland with my mom, to the backyard swimming pool at my in-laws.  The norm is the long ride home with Henry sideways slouching in the backseat while the older two watch a movie and I seek through the stations for tunes I can sing to.  The norm is small feet stomping and giggles from the floor above me, empty threats of separation until they are quiet, sound asleep with feet and arms draped broadly across their beds.  The norm is this silent living room, the clicking of my fingernails on the keyboard, the flick of the paper as I turn the page on a memoir, the clock ticking past the time I'd go to bed if Brandon was here.

If Brandon was here, the Indians game would be on, and he'd be yelling at the TV or talking to the commentators about the last play or commenting on the job the stats guys are doing or laughing at the local evening news anchors.  If Brandon was here, the computer would be sitting on the floor charging, my book would be cast aside, and I'd be cradled between his chest and his arm, listening to the sounds of his stomach and heart (because if he had any of that pizza tonight, his stomach would have been talking louder than his heart).  We might be sipping whiskey (oh, who am I kidding, we would definitely be sipping whiskey) and listening to music, or maybe he'd be playing his guitar, or maybe none of that, maybe just us, alone in our living room, being husband and wife, occupying this space we've created together.

It is good when he is here.  It is good when he is gone.  Both are good.  In fact, when both are in their best gear, both are very good.

I don't always see it this way because I want both goods simultaneously and that isn't possible.  He cannot be here and not here all of the time, and if he was here and not here all of the time I would resent him for not being here when he is here.  You totally get that, right?

It is hard to learn how to balance this life.  How to make room for each other when we're together.  How to appreciate the space when we're apart.  How to shore up the foundation when the support beam goes missing.  How to lean into each other when the rain washes everything away.  How to be content - even when I want him near.  Even when I want him gone.  How to love deeply in every season.  It is hard.  But it is very good.

(That's what she said.)

Why Do We Need Men?

So there's news flitting about that women are increasingly the leading or sole breadwinners in the American family.  In most cases, this means more and more families are being raised by a single mom with an absent father, or the reason mom is the breadwinner is because dad can't find work. 

It isn't because a couple sat down together and reviewed their financial and family plan to assess what the best scenario might look like for their family.  That is what we did back in 2007; we looked at my job prospects and our growing family, our move to a new city, and we said, let's see if this can work.  It did, with bumps and bruises, just like every new adjustment.  We know other couples who have made similar decisions and have made it work, and made it work well.

That isn't what we're talking about here, though.  Not many are celebrating this shift as a strong, positive, changing tide in family dynamics.  Kathleen Parker in her Washington Post article "The new f-word: Father," Fox News anchors (all flabbergasted males), and the MSNBC "Morning Joe" edition (almost all successful females stumbling about for a good answer to the "why men?" question) all discuss this trend toward women as sole or primary breadwinner, and none of them think it's a good thing.
 

The study spawns one of the strangest questions I can think of to be taken seriously by the general public, "Why do we need men?"

If a woman can earn a degree, work hard, carry a child, mow the lawn, take out the trash, prepare meals, and change a diaper all on her own, why bother with a man, who simply complicates life with his dirty clothes, smells up the place with his burping and farting, and adds another person to worry over and provide for?  Obviously all men are good for is sperm.  After impregnation, we can take it from there.

Why do we need men?  Why are we asking this question?  Why do we need women, when we can grow babies in test-tubes?  The necessity of an entire gender of a species is obvious.  What we're really asking is, "Where are the good men?"
 

Good men, whether stay-at-home fathers or sole breadwinners, love and support their wives, whether they stay-at-home or go-to-work or some combination of those tasks.  Good men teach boys how to be men.  Good men show girls what a good man looks like.  A good man leads when a good woman doesn't know what to do or where to go; a good man communicates with his spouse when he doesn't know what to do or where to go.  Good men (and women) lift up when the other falls down. 

We need good men for the great pleasure of building a family and a life with another person.  We need good men because men are at their core different from women, and women are at their core different from men, and these differences (whether traditional or non-traditional in their manifestations) provide balance, beauty, and character refinement.

Society is shouting, "We need good men!"

How do you make good men?  You raise good men. And if there isn't a good man in your life to help you do that, you find other good men to stand in that role as best as they can.  Good men must help other men to make men out of their men so that they can raise up good men, too.  We cannot complain about there being no good men out there if good men don't step in to make men good.

Stop asking "Why do we need men?" - that is not the question.  It should never be the question.  Substitute in any demographic and the question sounds preposterous, derogatory, and dangerous.  That question, when extended to its scariest places, devalues an entire population of our society. 

We need each and every kind of person to strive to be the best versions of themselves.  Let's stop asking dumb questions and start making good answers.

Binge Dating

It is my husband's final weekend of work for a couple of months after spending the last ten months on the road.  It feels like he's been gone all of the time, even though I know it was more like 3-4 day stretches with the occasional crazy mixed in there (see "The First Step Is Admitting You Have a Problem" or "Instructions for Crazy").  I have been waiting for this light at the end of the tunnel feeling for months, and it's so bright now that I'm squinting.  Ah!  The light, the light, the glorious light!

After Memorial Day weekend, Brandon and I have three solid days of dating planned.  It happened accidentally. I am going to New York City on Wednesday to accept an award on behalf of the Ashland Poetry Press (woo!), and it just so happens that Wednesday is Brandon's birthday.  What better way to spend your birthday than with me in NYC?!  We're staying one night and bounding back to Ohio on Thursday, but then, THEN, we are going to see Tim McGraw at Blossom on Friday night, a gift from Mr. Awesome-Husband.  

I am so freaking excited about this stretch of three days. 

That is kind of bad news.  I am the queen of getting my hopes up.  I've already imagined the lolling tongue grin I'll have plastered on my face at the concert with my husband's arm around my waist as we belt out with the crowd, "Where the green grass grows."  I can taste the sizzle of dinner in the city, the cool heat of whiskey or martini after our meal, the twinkly glow of city lights dancing in the night, the melt and anticipation for the rest of our evening, cool sheets, down pillows, the silence of no-children, the useless alarm on the nightstand, the muffled roar of the city below our window.

This is kind of bad news because you really can't plan to be romanced.  Oh, I can hope for it and rev up to it and dress up and psych myself but I can't predict or prepare for how our trip will go.  You can't plan which memories will stick as a future touchstone.  The quickening heart only beats harder in reminiscence.  I feel it now because we have been in these scenes before and my heart warms at the memory-- other concerts, other cities, other dinners, boardwalks and sidewalks and forest hikes and hot tubs and rose petals in soap bubbles-- but in the moment, we were just walking.  Just eating.  Just coming down from a wedding or a movie or a play or a good show, and man, weren't those seats great right there by the stage and he sang every song we love it was so good let's play the CD of him again and sing along loud down the highway home.

Is it weird to look forward to a trip and a concert so that you can also look back at it with the warmth of nostalgia and familiarity later?  I think back on the day I graduated from Ashland, how I squeezed Brandon's hand in the car on the way home after dinner that night, how I smiled and said, "This has been a really great day," how he detoured to downtown Cuyahoga Falls and then how we walked the shadowy boardwalk by the falls, the water raging below, the highway racing above, branches low and full of leaves around us, how he stopped and knelt, and I knew, yes, finally, yes, yes, I will!  It was the only day he could have picked to propose that he knew I wouldn't be anticipating a ring.

I couldn't know then as the day played out that I would return to this memory, turn it around in my hand like a smooth stone to feel the cool air on my skin, the cold band on my finger, the rush of my breath and our embrace, that promise, that choice.  How could I know?  But I hold that memory, tuck it in an aura with all of the other small and significant moments I've collected.  So much would follow that proposal, so much more heartache, so much more joy than any one person can fathom from that starting position.  Only from this current peak can one comprehend the distance and majesty of the preceding hike.

All I see this coming week is the trail and some trees, a little slope to the climb but nothing much to strain against.  So as we enter into our binge dating after so many stolen minutes between work and homework and baths and bedtime songs and wrinkled baskets of laundry, we will drive to the airport like it is an ordinary day, stroll the streets of another city like they are just sidewalks, eat food as if that's just what you do to survive after all, and roll towards the middle of the king-size bed because, sure, we're tired, but we're not that tired.  It will be an ordinary day, but all of that ordinariness, well, it is woven in this unique pattern between my husband and me.  And that's extraordinary.