Better Parenting via Science Theory**

There are several scientific theories that would have been discovered faster if only the world of science had allowed for mothers to be part of the discussion much earlier in history.

Nature seeks homeostasis: This is a truism. Every time I wash my floor, a child attempts to reassert the natural sticky feeling their feet have become accustomed to, by spilling something impossibly hard to clean up within ten minutes of the floor actually drying. Olive oil, maple syrup, and salt are amongst three of the most memorable illustrations of this theory in practice.

Opposites Attract: Clean white wall. Permanent Black Marker. Any questions? I mean, other than from my own mother asking why in heaven’s name do I even own a permanent black marker, or from my mother-in-law, where is this clean white wall you speak of?

Chaos Theory: Some individuals would stipulate that a child's very essence illustrates Chaos Theory's validity, independent of space, time or setting. Some individuals don't yet know the untrammeled power of a hungry child. For those who are still confused by chaos theory, perhaps a live demonstration is in order.  Please come on over to my house at five o'clock and try to fix dinner.  I will take a nap. 

Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

Exhibit A: my son’s laundry.
Exhibit B: An orange oversized tee he got in 3rd grade that defies all maternal efforts to transform or destroy. Handing it down has not stopped the older child from retrieving it for his wardrobe. Purchasing new shirts has produced no measurable effect. Now that it is, arguably, a bit tight around the arms, he still resents the fact that his mom has twice attempted to give it to goodwill. The shirt in question is currently stored in a secret bunker under his bed and heavily guarded by legos, books, smelly socks and other items that if discovered, would lead his mother to despair.

Time is relative theory: The simple errand of driving to school normally takes twenty minutes. Starting at 8:39 a.m. after Mom has whisked away breakfast materials and begun the getting dressed routine for all occupants still home, there is a tearful phone call from her third grade son. “Today is bake sale day and I didn’t bring any cookies.” Thinking about the frozen cookie dough in the freezer, Mom stupidly agrees to bring something by 10:30, as the bake sale starts at 11.

While in the process of getting the toddlers dressed, Mom throws the cookies in the oven, locates shoes, puts three unmatched socks in the laundry basket, flushes an abandoned toilet, puts milk away, turns off the lights, removes four bikes and two whiffle ball bats from the driveway, takes the cookies out of the oven, straps the two toddlers (who both want cookies) in their car seats and the baby and then signs a form for a package being delivered before starting the car.

Once in the car, Mom remembers that the aforementioned cookies are still in the kitchen. Retrieving the cookies, the phone will ring; it will be the same child asking if you are bringing the cookies. While inside, Mom will spot permission slip that needs to be dropped off and feel so virtuous for multi-tasking, she will run to her closet to gather the dry cleaning. Leaving for the second time, Mom gets half way down the driveway before realizing; she brought her purse in, but not out. In the few seconds Mom is in the house, the phone rings again, she forces herself to ignore it. Grabbing a prescription bottle on the counter that is about to run out, Mom returns to the car with her purse, cell phone and a diet coke. Triple checking to make sure she has all her children, her errands, and all required equipment for those errands, she drives.

It is part of the law of nature that she will then hit every red light plus have to navigate one traffic jam owing to a cop issuing a ticket and a second at a train crossing. She arrives around 12:15. The bake sale is over, and the volunteer has several dozen frozen dough baked cookies left over. When she checks the message on her answering machine at home from the phone call she ignored, it was her son saying “Never mind, third grade isn’t doing the bake sale this week, it’s fourth grade.”

Theory of Gravity: How annoyed your mother will be after enduring the above mentioned scenario versus. how much she loves you.

Next week: Scientific Law in Relationships:

Theory of Constancy: The level of stress in a marriage is constant, the level felt by the individuals within the marriage, is fluid.
** Originally ran on January 20, 2008, back when I only had 8 children. What a piker! 

A Valentine

My husband has gone out to dig out our driveway. We've been at it for four days. He brought out the stereo for musical motivation. The CD?

The sound track of "A Bridge Too Far."

For those unfamiliar with the film (a worthy watch of the heroism and insanity and luck and courage and sadness of Operation Market Garden); there are many quotable scenes but the one that perhaps gets used the most in our family is a discussion between two officers about a heavily fortified bridge that must be captured.

Brigadier General Gavin: What's the best way to take a bridge?
Maj. Julian Cook: Both ends at once.

Brigadier General Gavin: I'm sending two companies across the river by boat. I need a man with very special qualities to lead.
Maj. Julian Cook: Go on, sir.

Brigadier General Gavin: He's got to be tough enough to do it and he's got to be experienced enough to do it. Plus one more thing.

He's got to be dumb enough to do it... Start getting ready.

We switch roles based on who starts the conversation but here are a few examples:

What's the best way to clean the basement?
What's the best way to tackle the laundry?
How are we going to manage 5,6,7, 8, 9 children?
How are we going to pay for college?
How are we going to shovel all this snow? (They're predicting more tomorrow).

Junior Officer: what was all that about, Major?
Maj. Julian Cook: Well someone's come up with a real nightmare. Real nightmare. (Sending out all the junior officers to shovel as we speak).

Being the eternal optimist of the family, I'm now hunting through our collection of music for a different soundtrack; The Incredibles.

What is That?

This film was sent by a friend of my brother's who teaches theology at a high school in Houston. I found it very moving. I hope you will enjoy it too.

The True Rewards of Laundry

Frustration is good for the soul.

This is what I tell myself when twelve loads of laundry in a day are insufficient to produce the required gym shorts for all three girls. I try to be flexible. My eight children however, aren’t always nearly so accommodating.

“Those are my shorts.”
“Do you need a pair for today?”

“No.”
“Then let your sister wear them.”

“No.”

Now, the maternal gene does protect against the natural human reaction to such situations. Still, to deal with the work load, my husband and I have created systems. Laundry systems designed to prevent this sort of wardrobe malfunction from disrupting the morning routine.

Everyone has a laundry bag. Even the baby. There is a bag for the towels and a bag for dry cleaning too. Note to self, never get those last two mixed up ever again.

There shall be no mixing of laundry bags so that the wash/dry /fold tasks do not include sorting according to size or child, only color. It’s been working pretty well except for the final part of the job, the kids doing the wash. I’ve taught the top five how. They view washing their clothes as something you do like quarterly taxes.

So I was finishing up the last wash of the day. My husband had worked late himself and looked at the twelve neat piles, whistled and asked “So, the system is working well?” He picked up a few socks and mated them. I conceded, it had cut back on some of the work. This was insufficient praise for the economy of the system as envisioned by the designer. “So even if you never get additional help doing all the laundry from the kids…”

“Stop. Do Not Even Finish that sentence.”

“…Would you like a foot rub?”
"Ooh. Yes."

“And a bowl of ice cream and a diet coke.”
"That would be great!"

“And I’ll finish this load shall I?”

“Thank you.”

The system works.

The Prodigal Sink

Last week, my upstairs sink stopped working. There was no note, no explanation, nothing. I tried turning the knobs underneath and discovered that they leak very nicely when you do.

“Honey, the upstairs sink has no water. I should call a plumber.”

“You always want to call a plumber. It just stopped working…maybe it will start up again.”

“That’s like thinking the sink is Lassie and she ran away and might come back.”

“You never know. It’s a harsh cruel world out there and she might miss the comfort and safety of having green watermelon toothpaste smeared to her sides on a daily basin.” My husband tried turning the knobs, discovering the same leak.

“She might have quit because of the toothpaste. Think she prefers one with tartar control?”

“Just give it time. We don’t have to call this second. The kids can use the other sink. We can wait.”

“What are we waiting for? Godot?”

“No, we’re waiting for the spigot to go.”

A vigil for the recalcitrant sink began.

Meanwhile, other plumbing fixtures decided to pull an intervention. Toilets began random gurgling in solidarity with the sink. These were annoying, but insufficient to merit what I guessed would be a hefty service fee and four hour wait by the doorbell.

The fixtures grew more impatient, so the kitchen sink took action. The stream from the faucet became an anemic trickle. Worse than pure stoppage which would have ensured a prompt phone call to the proper authorities, it became work to get things wet. I limped through dishwashing. It took hours. I tried switching to an all paper plate economy but cooking still required some items be washed.

In desperation, I tried running the faucet before there were even dishes to do. Forty five minutes later, the sink was full and I had to drain the pasta. Watching that hard earned water go down the drain, I had an inspiration. I replugged the sink and drained the pasta, hoping the water would cool by the time I did dishes.

That evening, the plumber was looking oh so affordable and lovely to my reddened hands. Being weak, I called.

“We can send a truck next Thursday sometime between twelve and four. Will someone be there?”

“I have a Dr.'s appointment at two.”

“The next time available is June 5th.”

Visions of family visiting Memorial Day weekend and finding a non working sink and languid kitchen flow made me impulsively ask, “How much for coming tomorrow?”

“An extra $100 for the emergency service plus the standard rate of $55 for the first half hour.”

Meekly agreeing to the fiscal extortion, all I could think was “Lassie! Lassie come home!”

From the Bottom of My Heart

By mutual agreement, all children ages 7 and up through 8th grade shall not be subjected to the cruel indignity of having to express affection or even friendship to their entire class via Red papers and chocolate candy hearts.

Every year, it is the same. We go to the pharmacy and the boys spend most of their time hoping Mom will grant them a “get out of jail Free” moment and not require they address 31 “Be My Valentine” or “You are My Friend” Spiderman cards. One year, I thought I had solved the problem by printing labels that said “Happy Valentine’s Day from” that we could just slap on Hershey bars. It would have worked if his younger sister hadn’t started in on central supply.

The consequence was a late night for both of us as we cut and pasted paper hearts for all the kids and he moaned over the fact that his Valentines were the very worst. “Why do we even have Valentine’s Day?” he grumbled.

Now I could have given a historical or theological answer at this point, but instead I flipped the conversation. “Why do you think we do this?”

“So girls can figure out who they want to marry.” He growled. “I’m never getting married.” And to prove he was serious, he lay down on the floor, arms and legs extended, playing “Dead dying dog,” from a bad silent movie.

I get six to eight year old boys hating all those hearts and flowers, but even worse is coping with sixth grader girls. “Mom, the only ones left are really creepy. Do we have to do the boys?” Suppressing the desire to whoop as a parent, again, I offer the option of home-made valentines and explain, the purpose of the day is to show our friendship and affection for each other, to go out of our way for people we otherwise take for granted. She listens and we resort to index cards with taped M&m’s and red heart stickers.

The kindergartener of course is absolutely in love with the whole concept of the day. She thinks we should wear red sparkly things 365 days out of the year and immerses herself into the process of adding additional glitter to each and every card. The amount of sentiment expressed by her alone is enough to send the boys scrambling for a star wars video, as if to sponge the sugary heartfelt enthusiasm of one so enamored with Cupid from their collective psyches.

After shepherding four children through the hazards of giving for the occasion, I still had preschool to manage. Twenty Valentines later, even I felt slightly overdosed on the color red.

Little did I know, I wasn’t done yet.

“Hey Mom?”
“Yes son?”
“What are you going to get Dad? You know, to go out of your way to show affection.”

Now I love my husband, but the sentiment meter on my psyche was reading “E.” Truthfully, I hadn’t given it a moment of thought.

“Well, I’ve been kind of busy…” I started weakly.
“You mean you Don’t have a gift for HIM?” my daughter rounds on me. A mutiny began. My five year old looked broken at the prospect of her OWN Mother having failed the Romantic test.
“I thought I’d try for a baby sitter.” I scrambled.
“And?” My sixth grader pouted, dissatisfied.
“And maybe get him a book and a CD.” I’m improvised, adding hastily, “Maybe opera, something we don’t have.”

Eying me with collective suspicion, they set their minds, “Get your purse.” My oldest ordered. “Sis, you load the others, I’ll get the baby. Mom needs to go shopping.”

And so it came to pass that my husband got a Red Propane Bar-b-que grill and coupons for some gourmet steaks this year. When he opened his present, he said, “Honey, this is really….unexpected.”

“Well, you know Mom,” my son offered. “She’s a Very thoughtful kind of person.”
Happy Valentine's Day!
for more sentimental heart moving humor that's full of thoughtfulness, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!

I AM A GPS...

Now a days, every rental car has one of these Tom Toms or Guardians that is designed to eliminate the age eternal battle that goes on between the driver and the designated draftee navigator. With one of these babies on board, you can Tom Tom Cruise to your destination, and no wacky side trips to Oprah's couch are necessary.

Thanks to GPS's, these conversations are a thing of the past.

"Where are we going?"
"To your brother's house."

"Where do I turn?"
"You go North."

"No. Where do I turn."
"You don't turn for another forty minutes. Just go north."

"Where do I TURN?"
Sigh. "You turn right."

"Which exit?"

Getting out the map, the subbordinate counts the exits. "I think it's sixteen."

"You THINK? or you KNOW?" Takes map, in two seconds, "It's here." Points at map, is dead on, "Number 18. I thought so."


"If you knew..."

The conversation reads more like a defendant's interrogation in a bad law show than a dialogue between two people who would willingly consent to be in the same vehicle.


GPS's have helped lower the collective blood pressure of couples everywhere. Bliss is just a button push away. The disembodied voice supplies the information, no one gets mad and the machine never says, "I told you to turn left at the Exxon station exit but you..." A whole venue for passive aggression has been nearly universally eliminated from the emotional landscape of America. Dr. Phil has taken to trolling area hospitals for Brittany Spears melt downs, as the number of couples in marital trouble have dropped procipitously.

People listen to GPS's. The GPS's tell them where to go. The GPS's tell them what to do. The people do what the GPS says.


...I want to be a GPS.

Then I realized, for my family. I am the GPS or rather, the MPS. (Maternal Property Seeker).

Currently, I am the chief finder of all objects big and small, important and profound, paper and plastic. Mom is the great refuge for those unwilling to search or unable to find their important papers, toys, uniform pieces and necessary accessories.

Tom Tom, meet Mom Mom.

"Mom! Mom! I can't find my knitting!" Daughter is learning to sew in art class, currently making a hat or maybe a yellow tribble, she hasn't made up her mind.

"You left it in the TV room on the bookshelf near the top. Your library books on Copernicus were under it."

"Oh yeah."


"Mom! Mom! I can't find my silver shoes and I wanted to wear them to Christine's Princess Party this afternoon."

"I think I saw your younger sister wearing one of them in the study, so check under the blankets she left there as a tent, and the other one is in the far right pocket of the pool table, under the eight ball."

"Mom! Mom! I can't find my cell phone! I tried calling it but I put it on vibrate for Church this morning and..."

"Your phone is in our bathroom charging. You left it in my car when you brought in the doughnuts."


Mom-Mom can beat Tom-Tom most days. Most clients are satisfied with the speed and accuracy of information an MPS can provide. Testimonials include locating the Cub Scout manual and hat, the remaining box of diaper wipes, a set of car keys, two basketball uniforms, the science review sheet, socks, six shoes, a hair brush, nail clippers and a wallet all in one day.

Further investigation proves that MPS has only had one customer complaint.

Mom-Mom was completely ineffective when Sherry lost her purse.

Waiting for Mensa to Call...

This year I got a page a day calendar, and it’s put out by Mensa. Imagine the joy of getting up each day to a pop quiz. What fun.

Whee.

The first three days however, I gave it a shot and you know what? I did it.
What a rush.

The first day I solved the problem, I felt like “Hello, I’m Super Mom and me and my magnificent brain thingy are going to solve all your problems. Ask me how to go from COAST to SLIDE in seven steps, changing only one letter each time and each time making a word. Go on…Ask!”

No one asked.

The second day, I solved the math pattern problem and got the answer right but the method wrong. Close enough I thought. I GOT THE RIGHT ANSWER. Sherry G. Antonetti…supra genius. I like the way that rolls out….Sherry G. Antonetti….supra genius.

Reality hit back hard when the toddlers found the left over Christmas wrapping paper and unrolled it to get the cardboard tubes. Hey Genius the mess seemed to mock, how to you clean this up?

On the third day, it was a Tom Swifty and though I unscrambled all the words correctly, when it came to phrasing, I got it wrong. Being a Supra Genius, I said, “Who cares?” And then to prove the point, I wondered, “Why do Tom Swifties exist at all?”

The next two days were the weekend and I didn’t get to the calendar. Come Monday, it was a word problem. I hate word problems. I got it wrong. I tried to justify my answer. It was still wrong. Still, my record was 3-1-1 so I was shaken but not out of the genius running.

Yesterday. A pattern question. I spent all day puzzling over this one. All stinking day. When I finally checked my answer and got it wrong, I declared it a cheat test of my intelligence if they don’t give all the rules. When my husband looked at the puzzle and remarked “That’s tough.” I casually let slip, “Oh, it’s every letter that is made of only straight lines.” I had my reputation to maintain.

It has become an epic battle just to know what day of the week it is. I dread being given yet another chance to prove my ignorance on a daily basis, but I go back to it, just as surely as I do the super hard Sudoku. Today's puzzle, a letter problem.

"Place the same three-letter word in each blank below to make three different words."

_ _ _ ANT
_ _ _ DON
_ _ _ URE

Maybe there's a B-Team for Mensa.

By the way, the answer, (I looked on the back), is TEN --Get it, today's the tenth. The Supra Geniuses of the world are sniggering at my piddly intellect.

Sauce for the Goose...

For all the pieces out there about men being similar to trees when it comes to gift giving, the unspoken super criminal of gift giving is “us.”

Seriously.

We’ve all flunked at least one Christmas where the poor husband got socks. Socks! If we got socks for Christmas, we’d stew for months. It would be the stuff of legend. There would be flaming emails and calls so prolific as to melt the entire eastern seaboard’s communication grid. All males in the family would have to go into witness protection program or engage in a self flogging reeducation camp on proper presents just to insure such an experience would never happen again...ever.

Part of the problem is Men’s stores; you go in there and see what...drab clothing. Golf clubs, the smell of wallets. Fun times. These uninspired shops continue to exist because we’ve allowed it. We've enabled them to continue. We go to the mall with the best of intentions…we know our guy. So we think, we’ve got time and ooh look, there’s a sale on capes. I need a new cloak. Okay, now to business! Look at that, I’ve been needing some new gold hoops and maybe some make up since it’s bonus time. Hey, the salon isn’t crowded. I’ll just squeeze in a haircut.

Oh geez! I haven’t shopped for my love and I’m running out of time, I’ll just duck into the department store and…What did I buy him?

That year, I was in rare form. He got a red sweater, new socks, The A team third year complete season and a gourmet Chocolate bar (and one for me). Not my finest moment as a wife.

It is testimony to his great love that I still get presents.

I wish to sever this disfunctional relationship with the Men's store, to stop being co-dependent with those indifferent purveyors of "Y" chromosone geared presents.

Having racked my brains for an appropriate way to categorize Male gifts that are Gift Worthy, that knock their not so new socks off, I decided to consult an expert.

I ASKED MY HUSBAND…

After he recovered from the shock, here are the secret top ten gift giving ideas with helpful tips on the side for Men.

10) Clothing that looks like what we already wear –We do not accessorize and we hate to shop, so if you get us a nice shirt or a jersey from our favorite team, this is cool. Note: Other than for sporting teams, we don’t wear red. Don’t buy red. Don’t expect us to wear red if you do. It will be regifted to a younger brother as soon as we reach the post office or we’ll mumble gratefully “thanks” and then said sweater will always be at the dry cleaners or in storage somewhere.

9) Electronic gadgets –oddly enough, this is not as big a hit as you might think. Unless it is compatible with what already exists or we’re proficient with technology and some of us aren’t, these gifts are a source of frustration. We don’t want things that require reading directions. We don’t like directions. We don’t ask for them and we don’t like having to use them to operate a television.

On the flip side, brainless technology is also a bad call. Robo dogs that need walking? Talk about fuzzy logic! Look, it’s not real but you still have to devote time and energy to it; no thank you. Stores pimp gadgets with batteries included for men. Real men see through this as a blatant appeal to women, buy this and you’re done! Look Honey, I bought you a laser pointer. Isn’t it neat? Um…I think the robo dog needs to go for a walk.

8) Tickets. Like you, we’re busy. We don’t want to have to plan things. Buy two for a concert or a play or a show you KNOW we’d like or a game and set up the date. It will impress us you gave so much time to our relationship. If it’s a sporting event, make sure you’re mentally psyched for going because having an indulgence for a present isn’t fun. (A fun way for YOU to get us a planner we won’t buy, is to get the tickets and put the date with the tickets in the planner. But let us know to look, because otherwise, getting a planner for us is the equivalent of getting an ironing board. Whee.)

7) If we need a new watch, you can buy this. Otherwise, steer clear of men’s jewelry. We don’t accessorize. Even if we’re vegetarians, we still dress and focus on life in a meat and potatoes kind of way. One watch. Works for Day. Works for Night. Works for Dress and Casual. No rings. No necklaces. Nada. We’re men for crying out loud!

6) On the subject of needs: If our brief case, jacket or wallet looks drab or worn, this is an okay place to splurge and get us an upgrade, just make sure we won’t feel silly with it. As stated above, we don’t like shopping, even for us.

5) Channel your hunter gatherer skills for shopping. Watch and learn, track your subject and then move in for the kill. For example, books: We don’t’ want to know how we communicate. We don’t like having to work at just talking. Humor books also strike a false note, even if written by guys we like, as those get dated fast, one read and they’re done. Magazines? Be careful. Most guys don’t subscribe to GQ or Men’s Day type magazines. We do subscribe to SI and Time and Newsweek and National Geographic. Want us to read more? Go to a book store and watch to see what men pick up, peek at the selections and see if you’ve got a fit, then pounce!

4) No guy says they have a hobby. We have collections and obsessions, not hobbies –stamps, baseball cards, coins, model trains, fantasy football, movies and star trek. If we like golfing, we like golfing, it’s not a hobby. Got that? Good. Now, if we like doing something, get something for us we like doing. Just don’t write “For your hobby, hubby” on the card.

3) Homemade gifts…unless you’re really good at it, and even then it’s dicey. It’s not like we collect or appreciate quilts and as good as your pumpkin bread may be…well, we’ll appreciate the time and effort…but homemade promises…those work better. For example: a scrap book works! A sappy poem does not. We begin to cringe with the opening line, “My heart’s song transcends the stars…” A coupon for a one hour foot rub from you works! From the spa…well, most guys I know aren’t signing up on Saturday for a pedicure.

2) Food. There is no love so sincere. However, chocolate is not our go to of choice, it’s yours. Besides, we KNOW if we get chocolate, we’re going to have to share. Fruit of the month, well, it’s nice and we might be surprised by how much we like it…Wine of the month –better. A smoked turkey. Excellent. Imported stuff, Prime Steaks. Now You’re talking! Dessert of the Month –okay, you got us there. (Gift cards to restaurants however, do NOT work. They feel like a prepaid nag to go out). Take us to a place you discovered you know we’d love, that’s a date!

Food related items should be 1) high quality, 2) functional 3) not require additional high quality functional items. A Barbeque Grill tool set does not work well without the Barbeque grill. It’s like an empty jewelry box.

1) Affection and Attention. We like back rubs and unexpected kisses. We like a peaceful home. We want to come home to a woman that is delighted to see us not because of what we can do as relief pitchers with the kids or the chores, but because we are simply there. Forgive us our foolishness and abandon some of your frustration, we don’t want you to swallow it because then it’s still inside. We want your enthusiastic presence for us more than anything.

Look, we brought flowers, silver and chocolate!

Merry Christmas!

Joining the Gamers' Club

What we don’t know innately, we marry.

For example, my husband has a built in GPS in his head. He can tell North on a starless night without a compass or those pesky Auroras Borealis. On the other hand, I still navigate the town that has been our home for thirteen years with mild trepidation. There is a Bermuda Triangle within its radius that plagues me still to this day. The directions for getting to the Victory Center where our daughters play basketball have imprinted on my brain such that I cannot get there….without getting lost first. I have come to terms with my faulty brain. I don’t take them to games anymore.

I dance, love musical theatre and enjoy reading the classics. He reads history for pleasure and can remember it without a test the next day. In other words, ask me if you’re playing Trivial Pursuit for the brown or the pink slice of pie, ask him if you need the history one. I don’t even remember what color that pie piece is.

Where are my…?

During our dating years, I marveled at how organized and put together my future spouse was. He never lost anything. I lost my purse and found it later the second night we met. My I.D. card fell out of my pocket in December. When the snow finally melted that semester in April, I found it again.


I have learned to look in the place where things ought to be first when beginning a mission to retrieve lost objects. Cue Mission Impossible music here. I am now the GPS for all items within the household.

"I can't find my music stand."

"It's next to the computer in the study."

"We don't have lunch boxes!"

"They're still out in the car where you left them."

“Where are my papers from yesterday?”

“They’re on the table under the lunchbox in the kitchen.”

Actually, I’m more like the brown paper envelope in the middle of the Clue Game. I have the answers, I just need the right question.

Scrabble, Upwards and On Words…

We play cards and strategy computer games and every board game there is in our house. My husband is the master of the set battle plan, thus he usually wins at hearts and always at “Go.” My method of play is more on the fly, I school him at chess and occasionally have a run of victories at cards. Where we both are evenly matched is Scrabble. He can plink down amazing words.

Because I’m a non-speller, my victories have been mostly moral ones, but there was one where I put down the “J” on a triple letter score to catapult to the lead, forming the word “Jo.” “That’s not a word. I challenge.” It was a bluff, but I lucked out. It means sweetheart. I tried calling him that for a time, it didn’t stick. It’s a stupid word and even I concede, I won, but with dishonor. (You have to say that last part with a Klingon accent).

Speaking of Klingons,

If anyone in cyber space has Quest for the Throne, the Klingon version of Star Fleet Battles (STB), I’ll buy it from you. Back in my sophomore year of college, he bought the game to teach me about STB quickly and I was undefeated in seven tries despite being an absolute rookie. Then the game vanished mysteriously. He promises he didn’t throw it away.

Gifts and Gift Giving

November 15, 1992 A day that remains pivotal in my spousal relationship. No, it’s not our anniversary or the anniversary of an anniversary or anyone’s birthday. It’s the day we stopped being newlyweds and became a “settled” couple. My husband came home and saw me putting away some shirts from the drycleaners. After dinner, he gave me a pensive gaze and said with recognition in his voice, “You don’t iron for me anymore.” I laughed.

December 20, 1997 We were wrapping up the last of the loot when it occurred to me I hadn’t bought my beloved a present. Expecting a baby, I could have punted and just allotted the oversight to pregnancy hormones. My admittedly feeble attempt to rectify the situation was worthy of spousal scorn, but he’s a very gallant man. My folks were in town for the holidays and I had purchased several books. Having overheard my mom talk about having read one of the books I had bought for her, I regifted on the spot. The problem was, he knew about that book in particular and the fact that it was originally intended for my mom. The inscription on the inside says it all. “I was thinking of you as I wrapped this book, Love S.”

The other day, my husband called me about a sign he saw talking about giving your wife a rock to remember. “How about some quartz?” he offered. “Wow. That would be great!” He showed up with what I estimate to be a 90 lb. boulder that looks very nice in our back yard. The sparkly earrings came later. I countered by getting him something I swore when we dated I’d never do, some practical gifts, fresh pants and socks. Then, feeling bad, I impulsively bought him a beautiful red blanket, and “The Man of LaMancha.”

Romance may be about getting hearts and flowers but love isn’t about getting what you want. It’s getting what you most profoundly need, even if it’s to be told to shape up. We’ve both demanded that the other become more of the person God intended us to be over the years. We diet and budget and struggle with organizational systems to manage our many charges together. He’s learned to bring chocolate on any occasion and how to dance, and I’ve discovered the History section at the book store under his tutelage. I’ve introduced him to musicals and classic film and he’s taken us to civil war battle grounds and explained the campaigns. He’s even navigated me over the phone to the basketball center. And together, we’re a tough match in cards or Trivial Pursuit.

Think I may buy an ironing board, just to surprise him.