True Love

“True love means never having to explain what you’re scratching while you’re asleep,” John stated as we lazed in some post-Christmas exhaustion the other night.  (We have our deepest conversations just as we’re about to pass out.)  His statement made me begin to wonder what other “true love-isms” we’ve established during our marriage. It’s these little love nuggets I’ve taken for granted during my married life.   I really hope that we never have to reenter the dating scene, because I’m pretty sure we’ve ruined each other for other people. 

We do have some pretty steadfast “–isms” in our marriage.  I’m not certain if any of them are normal, but if we’re judged by our offspring, I’m pretty sure they aren’t.  I may not be Jesus, but I have my own list of marital beatitudes. 

·      True love means it’s okay to fart instead of speaking a good morning greeting. 


Certainly, that must have taken a few years to establish.  I know it sounds pretty primitive, but it’s like I recently explained to Stancey when she expressed some concern that she might fart a bit while she’s sleeping,  “It really isn’t that gross.  In fact, for your dad and I, it’s kind of like a mating ritual.” 

The look on her face said it all.

·      True love means it’s okay to leave hair on the bar soap.  


Okay, maybe it’s not okay, but since John is kind enough to tolerate the three-inch hairs I seem to constantly neglect on the backside of my knees, I can’t really say much about the chest hair he leaves behind on my soap.

·      True love means even the best conversations can occur when someone is on the toilet. 


In our one-bathroom house, I’ve talked freely to John (and Mayle, Stancey, Madison, Samuel, Kenneth, AND even Max) all while otherwise engaged . . . as has John.  Most conversations have occurred through a closed door, but on the weekends, any given person can be on the job while someone else is showering. 

·      True love means I can pick my nose—all the way up to my second knuckle if I want to. 


And the same goes for flossing my teeth, adjusting my under garments, and checking the effectiveness of my deodorant. 

·      True love means I can tolerate the bathroom, kitchen, and dining room remodel John started a decade ago, but hasn’t gotten around to finishing.


. . . as well as the open hole in the kitchen ceiling below my leaky tub, the stagnant water feature in the side yard, and the lack of trim in almost everyone first floor room.

·      True love means that John can pretend that I’m almost as svelte as I was, say, four kids ago. 


And as long as he stays at least 20 pounds heavier than me, we have no problem. 

·      True love means we can share each other’s toothbrush from time to time. 


Sometimes it’s out of sheer oral hygiene necessity.  Having walked in on Max dipping mine in the toilet, flexibility is a must.  And as often as the other kids brush, John’s toothbrush is the safest wager.

I really do cherish that I’ve found someone with whom I can share all these every day commonalities.  Do I worry we’ve let ourselves go?  No, because I know we have.  Do I want to know why he’s scratching his butt cheek with such fervor in the middle of the night?  Not particularly.

And in case you’re interested, he’s all mine.

A White Trash Christmas Letter

Dear Friends,

2011 has been a lucky year for us.  For the first time in over a decade, we can afford to buy postage stamps.  If Obama is the angel of joblessness, then I’m glad he has decided to pass over our house.  Thankfully John and I are continuing to make just enough to keep us slightly above poverty level.  For now, the only form of assistance we receive is a modest daycare scholarship for Max. Now instead of $500 a month for three full days, we now only pay $400. I guess you could say we’re living the lower, middle-class dream.

Speaking of daycare, Max started attending this past September.  So far, it’s been a mixed bag.  It’s really nice having him destroy a foreign environment as opposed to hiring someone to come in destroy mine.  The tradeoff has been a never-ending series of colds since September. The latest version won him an overnight stay at Fairview Hospital. 

As socially stimulating as daycare has been for him, his verbal skills are still lagging.  His classmates don’t know what to make of his grunts, but they sure know how to get out of his way when he brings out his hitting hands.  When his teachers asked me how we disciplined him at home, I said with a wink, “We hit him back.”  I had a lot of education classes in college—I’m no dummy.

Kenny started kindergarten this fall, and much to my relief, he seems to really like it.  Helping the situation, I’m sure, is his pretty kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Freda. So far she hasn’t seemed to mind his blatant refusal to wear underwear.  Also working to our advantage is his newfound classroom shyness.  Yes, we’ve really lucked out.

Earlier this November, Sam shot his first doe and we now are the proud owners of a freezer full of venison.  At least it’s not opossum or squirrel.  So far he says his favorite meal is spaghetti and deer balls. 

Madison, now a freshman, has quite the impressive Christmas wish list this year.  Most of all, he wants a stab resistant vest.  High school must be rough these days.  Though I still don’t know what he wants with the gas mask and a radiation jumpsuit that John and I managed to find for him, I must draw the line with the vest. 

Stancey recently turned sweet sixteen.  She’s itching to get her driver’s license, providing she can eventually pass the pesky temps test.  To her defense, why does she need to know the various penalties for driving under the influence?  Isn’t it enough that she’s aware not to do it?

Finally, Mayle has temporarily moved back home to live in the basement.  This time she brought along her boyfriend Wes and her cat Grilled Cheese.  While it’s nice having all my chicks back under my ever-expanding wing, I do have somewhat of an issue with the cat.  He likes to poop under Madison’s bed.  My house has this complex mingling of scents:  Christmas tree pine, Scentsy cinnamon and cloves, and a slight undertone of cat feces.

Yes, friends, life is indeed good.  If 2012 follows in much the same way, I’ll have plenty of material to write about.  Please feel free to drop by our humble home and partake in holiday cheer.  Max will leave a chocolate on the toilet seat for you, and now that the kids are on winter break, they’ll always be someone awake to greet you.  Sam can even set aside a plate of deer balls. Just keep in mind we're now a family of nine with only one bathroom.

We'll leave the light on.

O Christmas Tree

Over the weekend, most of the family embarked on our annual quest to bring home the perfect Christmas tree.  Our trek was a smidgen Currier and Ives, a modicum of Norman Rockwell, but undoubtedly a generous better of Gary Larson’s Far Side.  Our Christmas tree pick off is definitely a tradition we’ve maintained; even when it might have been in our better interest to leave it be.

Our first Christmas together, John and I picked our tree from a traditional tree lot.  In the moonlight, it was glorious.  In the middle of our apartment, it radiated the most beautiful shade of Rust-oleum Meadow Green.  What made that particular tree even more special was the brand new angel that napped in her bassinet next to it a few short weeks later —Stancey Alise.

As the years progressed, our traditions became more complex. John evolved from a simple tree purchaser to a skilled tree lumberjack. And our kids, once easy to please, also evolved into the most scrutinous of tree connoisseurs. 

Ultimately, they have no say, but for fun, we let them think they do. 

The pinnacle of Christmas tree searches was the year I cut down the tree without John. Why it hadn’t occurred to me to just buy a damn tree still troubles me.  Broke and desperate (much like the majority of our Christmases), I frantically tried to arrange the most meager of holidays while John was working construction in Florida.  As the kids and I walked the field, I carried a toddler-sized Kenny on my hip and wielded a rusty saw in my free mittened hand. As we tripped over frozen patches of mud and dead tree stumps, the kids argued incessantly and my fingers twitched on my most hopeless of weapons. 

Within minutes, I casted an executive decisions and picked the ouchiest of trees. I precariously flung it to the van roof and secured it equally well.  As I sat in the driver's seat, I turned and glared intently at each one of them. 

“I hate you, and you, and you, and you!”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that,” Sam had whispered back.   

“Tell that to your therapist.” 

That Christmas we really could have benefitted from a spray-painted spruce. Sure it may have smelled a little funky, but after the little ones shove used-up toilet paper tubes and empty juice boxes into the branches, they all smell funky anyway.

This year, as we drug O Tannenbaum through the field, Kenny broke into song.  Though not the most traditional of Christmas tunes, Rocking Around the Christmas Tree seemed almost fitting.  A bit fractured and manufactured in spots, I was happy that at least he hadn’t chosen to sing the Paul McCartney synthesizer song. 

In my heart, there are the perfect Christmases; and with time and failing memories, all mine have become that.

Given that same cocktail of time and therapy, I’m nearly positive my kids will feel that way too.