Has it been that long!?

My wedding anniversary is tomorrow. I’ve been married three years.

Three. Years.

It really doesn’t seem like it has been that long. That old saying: ‘time flies when you’re having fun,’ well, that couldn’t be truer. Sure, we’ve had our disagreements.  Yes, we’ve been disappointed. But what an amazing adventure it has been!

And in that time, I have learned a great deal- both about my marriage, and relationships in general.

1. Thankfully, the stomach is not the only way to a man’s heart. At least, not in my husband’s case.

Over the past three years, I have tried failed at cooking a wide variety of things. My hubby, being the wonderful man he is, ate choked down whatever it was I put on his plate. Always with a smile (or a grimace- but I choose to be a ‘glass-half-full’ kind of gal). And sometimes, it didn’t even look edible. More like an elementary school science fair project than dinner. However, I have now come to accept that I will never be a gourmet chef. Hallelujah! My hubby loves me anyway.

2. ‘Nagging’ is a horrible word. It is also a horrible concept. Therefore, I never nag- I ‘encourage’ (no matter what John says). Eventually, he gets tired of all my nagging encouraging, and will usually do as I’ve asked.

It’s definitely a skill I have perfected.

3. It takes a while to get used to living with a boy. For example, after the wedding, men seem to forget what the hamper looks like or what it’s used for. This is where my nagging encouraging comes in handy. We’ve been practicing, and I think he’s beginning to catch on. He can usually differentiate the hamper from the pictures of other objects- a brick, a giraffe, a hamper, and Santa Claus.

Usually.

4. Don’t take each other for granted. Something as simple as saying ‘thank you’ can help your other half feel appreciated.

“Thank you for yanking that tick off my back. I couldn’t have done it without you. And it hardly hurt at all. Don’t worry about the blood. ‘Tis but a flesh wound.”

Or

“Hey, you’re awesome. Thanks for cutting the grass in that 100 degree weather. I’m really glad you didn’t pass out or get heat exhaustion.”

5. Make time for each other. It may not be the most conventional or convenient time (like at 3 am), but time is the best way to strengthen and grow a marriage. Here’s an example:

At 10:30pm, I prepare for bed. It’s a work day tomorrow and I have to be up at the crack of dawn. We say goodnight, give smooches and I lay down and he remains in the living room to watch another episode of House Hunters International.

Hubby (approx. 3:20am)- Poke. Poke. Babe? Are you awake?

Me- Muffled groan.

Hubby- Babe?

Me- Whaaaaat?

For those who know me well, waking me up from a dead sleep is tantamount to poking a sleeping bear in the eye. Bless his heart. But, God love him, what he has to tell me is just so important that it cannot possibly wait until later. Like when I’m actually awake. Surprisingly, I have to agree. And I’m being completely serious. Despite my sleepy haze, I realize how blessed I am to have a husband who wants to share things with me. Even at 3. In the morning. On a work day.

6. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Things like getting locked out of the house. Twice. A dishwasher that quits working when every single dish is dirty. Dog poo all over the bathroom floor, walls and tub- and there is no more bleach or air freshener. Dirty clothes on the floor, even after all my nagging (ahem!) encouraging. “You spent eighty-three dollars at the book store!? We can’t keep spending like that!” And “we’re having mac-n-cheese for dinner again!? “

There will be bigger bumps in the road than accidentally eating the last pudding cup (“I told you I was going to eat that!” Oops.) Build a bridge. Walk over that bridge together, hand in hand. You’ll be a stronger couple for it.

7. Sacrifice. Not compromise. I can compromise with people I don’t necessarily like. Anyone can find a common ground, a trade-off that will satisfy both parties.

But sacrifice, now that’s love. And it doesn’t always have to be the big things.

Moving to Louisville. Letting him pick the kitchen counter top for our new house (which actually turned out just fine). Letting me have the newer car. Those are all little sacrifices we’ve made for each other over the years. They bring us closer together. Each sacrifice lets the other know how much they are loved.

Man, am I blessed! Boy, am I loved!

And I couldn’t ask for more.

Now I know I have a heart... because it's breaking.

All the tin man ever wanted was a heart. I always thought it was so funny that he would wish for a heart, especially since he appeared to be the character with the biggest one. But in the end, he got one. His very own heart. Just in time for it to break. A person he cared for was leaving. And being left behind, well, it isn't easy. Even if you are made out of tin.

Tin man. I know how you feel.

Last summer, my parents had come down for a visit. We got a call from one of my uncles to say that grandpa was in the hospital because he was complaining of pain in his stomach. They were going to do surgery to remove his gall bladder because that seemed to be what was causing the problem. Imagine our shock to find out it was cancer. Cancer? Surely not. But it was there- that big scary 'c' word, like the pink elephant in the room. We couldn't even say it to each other. How were we going to say it to him?

Fast forward to present time. To say that this has been a difficult journey would be an understatement. In conjunction with the physical deterioration of his body, we are now dealing with the emotional consequences of this disease. His coping with needing to ask for help. Our despair as we watch this once strong and capable man struggle to stand up from his chair.

I went to see him last weekend. There he was, laying on his new hospital bed, sound asleep. Now, he has never looked old to me, even though he's 83. But in that moment, he did. He looked so frail lying there. His poor body is just so tired from fighting his disease, and it shows. So I stood there looking at this man I have known and loved my entire life, a man who has always had more than enough room in his heart for me (his southern belle)- the man I call grandpa, and I felt as if I would just simply break into a million pieces right there on the living room floor. I can't say goodbye to him yet. I won't. I'm not ready to let him go.

But he keeps saying that he doesn't think it's going to be much longer. His strength continues to deteriorate daily. He sleeps a good majority of the time. He needs help doing the very things you and I take for granted. Like getting out of bed. Or going to the bathroom.

As tragic as this has been, I have learned a great deal about the wonderful people I call my family. And it hasn't gone unnoticed. I think grandpa is proud of his children and grand-kids. He certainly likes to tell us so. So as I was sitting with him this past weekend, chatting about everything and nothing, he looked at me and said, "You are such a beautiful young woman. I am very proud of you." That means a lot to me grandpa. It really does. And I love you so much I feel my heart will explode with the magnitude of it.

And there is so much more I want to say. But I can't trust myself to say the things I want to without crying. Without pouring my heart right out through my eyes. The last thing I want is to upset him. The last thing I want is for things to go unsaid. How do you reconcile these two wishes? So as I was leaving, I leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead. "I love you Grandpa. So so much." But what I didn't say is, "I am really going to miss you." Really. And truly.

I am really going to miss you.

The best laid plans...

Almost a year ago, I stopped taking birth control. It was with an air of excitement that I discarded my last pack of BC pills and began planning to become a mother. What should we name him/her? Will he have my eyes? Will she have curly hair like her father? Will I be a good mom? How will I decorate the nursery? SQUEAL. Surly, it wouldn't take that long, right? All we needed for my dream to come true was one sperm to attach to one egg. One sperm. One egg. One out of millions. Unfortunately, making a baby is not quite as easy as they make it sound in biology class.

The arrival of Aunt Flo, unappreciated even before trying to conceive (TTC), is now considered D-Day at our house. Her presence means yet another month of feeling hopeless- wondering, "will it ever be my turn?"

Aside from an almost visible aura of despair hanging around my head, Aunt Flo also brings with her painful cramps, dizzying mood swings, an unparalleled appreciation of pain medication, and a rise in our electric bill thanks to my gratuitous use of the heating pad. And, if she's feeling particularly devious, she will also throw in a wide array of intestinal issues (we won't go into detail here as I'm fairly certain you will have gotten it- let's just say Pepto is a God send), and most recently, heartburn. In fact, I look forward to her monthly visit as much as a root canal. A horrible crop killing drought. Spending $5 per gallon at the gas pump. You get the idea. In short, she is an unwelcome guest. As unwelcome as termites in a log cabin.

So, here I am, waiting. Always waiting. Waiting to see if Aunt Flo dares to show her ugly face. Waiting to see if my dream of motherhood will come true. Waiting to find out if this is the month. My cycles usually last about 28-40 days, so as I said before, I am waiting. In the dictionary, right under the definition of 'waiting,' you will find a picture of me. Probably holding my pain meds and heating pad. And quite possibly wearing a scowl.

But I have to wonder if God is trying to teach me something. I have frequently prayed for Him to bless me with patience, a trait I have often struggled with. Now I find myself saying, "God, I didn't mean teaching me this lesson by with-holding something I desperately want so much I can taste it." I also have a nasty habit of trying to plan my own life, sometimes at His exclusion. So, maybe this is exactly what I need. (As much as I hate to admit it). After all, God knows exactly what is best for me, despite my best efforts to show that I know what's best for me (I don't). He has a plan for me, a plan far greater than I could ever have for myself. This is what gets me through the waiting. Albeit not always patient waiting. And who knows? One day (hopefully soon), I may not have to wait any more.

An appropriate quote, I think: "The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry." Stop planning. Start living. Stop planning. Start appreciating. Stop planning. Start listening to God.

This is me on D-Day. That's the visible aura of despair I was talking about. Hubby must have snapped this picture when I wasn't paying attention.