Still Saying Yes, One Day at a Time

Proposals gone right.  I have one.  And like most of us who said yes and don’t regret it, I love mine.

It featured a suburban apartment that I had chosen but immediately hated, hoping it would give me insight into whether I wanted to move to the country (it so very much didn’t), plus a landlord who suggested we open the oven door for heat when the furnace gave out in February, and a bonus crazy basement renter below us.  Crazy as in:

1.  Coming to our door on Valentine’s Day and telling us that she knew we were young and that this was a day for romance and she had her TV on nice and loud so she couldn’t hear anything downstairs (thereby precluding any possible sex that day).

2.  Offering me her used lingerie, including thong underwear, smashed into little paper gift bags that she’d hang from our apartment doorknob or hand me in person (with the proviso that “I kept the crotchless panties for myself”).

3.  Trying to help me relax on moving day, when the moving trucks didn’t show up and we had to use my uncle’s cube van for five trips to Toronto, by throwing a bucketful of cold water in my face:  “I thought you needed to cool off!”  (I managed – just – not to annihilate her.)

But.  In this apartment inferno there was a bedroom, and in that was a bed, upon which I lay one day feeling particularly miserable and defeated when my now husband asked me to marry him.  There was no ring (we would buy it that afternoon together), there was no view, there was no good ambiance.  But the Eiffel Towers and Taj Mahals and all the carats in the world can’t compare in riches to me.

I can’t quite tell you more about it; I hope you don’t mind.  Adding a newborn to our family, the three times that we’ve done it, puts some strain on our marriage.  Our latest little one has ushered in the easiest transition by far, but thereare still some adjustment kinks, and my mood isn’t leading me to bask comfortably in the glow of our proposal gone right.  Rely on it, yes, that I do, but no basking, nothing smug.

We’re just working at it, one day at a time.  But it is nice, this little opportunity to remember how we were in those moments when we decided that we were in it for good.  I think it may have demonstrated a little of the stamina and sincerity that we would need to see us through, and is kind of reassuring that way.

Reader, I Married Him

This is where my husband asked me to marry him.  It’s the rocky point at the end of a tiny beach, in a tiny town on the shores of the Northumberland Strait.  The cottage on that beach is where we spend two weeks of every summer, and it’s where my husband spent all his childhood summers.  It’s a piece of us.

13 years ago, we walked out to the rocks at sunset with a bottle of cold white wine, and we walked back to the house betrothed and drunk with love.   

The proposal went wonderfully right, from my point of view at least.  For Ted, it was nerve-wracking.  Before we left on our trip, I was cleaning out the back of the car, and I pulled out a pair of his jeans and a shirt that were just sitting on the back seat.  Not in a bag.  I hate that.  I was already grumpy about the whole not in a bag thing, mumbling something to the effect of “How hard it is to container-ize?”, when out of the pocket of his jeans fell three of my rings.  I started in on, “What are my rings doing in the pocket of these jeans that you so carelessly transport without a bag?!”  He’d taken them off the dresser to take to the jeweler’s to get my ring size, of course, but I was so hung up on the whole clothes not in a bag, rings clattering onto the sidewalk, they could have fallen out anywhere, it’s lucky that you didn’t lose them train of thought, that it never even occurred to me to wonder why he had them in the first place.  He said he’d picked them up off the floor of our bedroom when he was vacuuming and had forgotten to put them back on the dresser.  Bless ‘im.  It never even occured to me to question that.

So having escaped my noticing that he was scoping out my ring size, he then had to come up with a way to present the ring to me.  That year, Alice Munro, whose stories I wrote about for my doctoral thesis, published The Love of a Good Woman, so he thought he’d buy a copy of that aptly-titled collection, cut out a hole in the middle of it, and put the ring box into it.  Great idea, but the book wasn’t thick enough.  So he went to the shelf and took off the thickest of her books, her Selected Stories.  The copy with all my notes and annotations in it.  And he cut holes through 500 pages to create a little nest for the ring box. 

He was more afraid that I’d be mad about the book than he was worried about my response to his proposal.  Which was, of course, yes, yes, a thousand times yes.  I was not at all fazed by the cut up book, I was enchanted by the idea, and I am still head-over-heels in love.

Proposals Gone Right

Will you marry me?

Such a simple phrase, so easy to say yes to, and so impossible to understand the implications of when acceptance will entail.  Valentine’s Day is just about upon us, and to mark the day, 4Mothers will be talking about proposals gone right.  For the record, we four are all (still, currently) married, so we may end up talking about our own proposal stories, but then again, proposals come in all shapes and sizes, so who knows?

Do you like the celebrations?  I know many people get annoyed at the forced and commercial nature of the day, but I always remember my university roommate who defended Valentine’s Day by saying, “of course we don’t need a special day to remember our loves because we can celebrate them all the other days of the year, except that we don’t”.

So, before we talk about proposals, we’d like to be among the first to wish you a good day tomorrow, complete with a virtual box of chocolates.  Happy Valentine’s Day, readers.  We are so glad you come here.

A Beantown Getaway

It was back in March that I blogged about a fantastic (and much needed) trip to Paris that my husband and I took.  It was exactly what we needed to do: reconnect.  We needed something more than a dinner date or a quick night away – we needed time to really rediscover our relationship.

While we were sipping champagne in the glow of the Eiffel Tower, we made a commitment to each other to make our relationship a priority.  It’s much easier said than done.  In between the kids’ schedules, family obligations and a demanding job, it’s easy to see how relationships can become neglected.

We do have a weekly dinner planned and although the night may shift and the time and location variable, we try never to cancel our date.  Should the circumstance not be avoided we reschedule.

This past weekend we took “date night” on the road and explored the city of Boston.  If you have never been, I highly recommend it.  The old brownstones and cobblestone streets evoke a European feel but the impressive monuments dedicated to the Civil War and the love affair with the all-things Kennedy instantly grounds you in America.

It was a short visit – only the weekend but thanks to the hop-on, hop-off trolley we were able to see the sights and learn of the city’s rich history spoken by our jovial guide with that distinct Boston accent.

Eating and drinking are a common theme on our trips, so I thought that I would share with you our favorite eats.

Neptune Oyster House – this tiny, strictly seafood restaurant (pictured below) located in Little Italy is worth the line-up.  There are not many seats in the house, and after a forty-minute wait we sat at the bar, which arguably is the best place to sit.  The oyster shucker pried open the shells feverously to keep up with the steady demand for fresh grub and the bar tender was quick to offer up her favourites on the menu.  I had the best lobster roll I have ever eaten.  Steaming hot lobster, drenched with butter atop a perfectly sized bun.  So simple, yet so delicious!

The Butcher Shop – Just as the name suggests, The Butcher Shop is a small restaurant across from the famed Hamersley’s.  The wait to get in is long, because so few tables pepper the shop.  Vegetarians be ware this is not the place for you.  Meat abounds at this place and the quality and presentation don’t disappoint.

Coppa – Tucked away in a residential neighbourhood, this Italian osteria is a noisy mess hall for locals.  The food is modern Italian that can be described as a nod to traditional dishes but with a twist.  Since this was my birthday dinner, I indulged in carb overload.  I started my meal with a wood fire pizza (don’t judge – I shared!) and then went on to eat lobster linguine (only a half order). The pre-dinner cocktail, wine and limoncello for dessert helped to assuage my guilt for playing food group favourites.

Legal Sea Foods – Perhaps it is a bit touristy but for a quick, and easy lunch this is the spot.  Families are welcome here!  The food comes out fast and it’s good.  There is a reason that this place is considered an institution.

Limoncello – Because we hadn’t stuffed ourselves enough, we decided to end our trip with a meal from Little Italy.  We had heard from many locals and tourists alike that we wouldn’t be disappointed.  Wandering the winding cobblestone streets of the North End to choose a restaurant proved to be more challenging than we thought as all of the menus beckoned.  As we walked by this restaurant, a quick peak inside sealed the deal.  For one, the décor was beyond tacky (see photo below).  An obnoxious mural of Florence lined the wall, white cloths draped the formally set tables, knick-knacks such as fake grapes were displayed on ever-available surface and the chairs looked to be about thirty years old.  The way we see it, any place that has survived so long that it feels like a time wrap usually means good things.  And secondly, there were other people in the restaurant speaking Italian.  Let’s just say that the food was so unbelievably good (and to quote our waiter: “Why not?  You deserve to eat the best! ) that I actually contemplated untucking my shirt so that I could unbutton my pants and keep eating.

Not Exactly Paris

My husband Ben had hip surgery this past Tuesday.  The specialist who performed the surgery works out of Hamilton, about an hour an a half from where we live in Toronto.  Because I need to take care of the kids, because the surgery was scheduled for early in the morning, because we have to carefully parse out the time when childcare arrangements free me to visit him, Ben drove himself to Hamilton late on Monday night, and spent all of Tuesday (before, during, and after the surgery) alone.

It wasn’t ideal.  But we’ve been through this before – three of Ben’s four hip surgeries have taken place in Hamilton.  We knew he would be so heavily drugged on Tuesday that it wouldn’t be the best day for visiting.  Don’t get me wrong.  I wanted to be there, just as I want to be there everyday, but we have to pick and choose.

So we picked Wednesday.  With some serious assistance from Ben’s mom and my sister to take care of the kids, I had the luxury of visiting Ben alone.  Ben missed them and wanted to see them, but it would be so much more complicated to have a 4 and 2 year old in tow, and visiting time at hospital would shorten dramatically.  There would also be that perpetual fear of the unexpected jump on the bed, which could have serious consequences for Ben’s recovery.

Ben had driven our car up, so I had to take transit.  To my dismay, I missed the hourly train.  But as luck would have it, there was an express bus that got me there even earlier than planned.

The bus trip actually had the slight feel of adventure to it.  I had never taken it before, and it’s been awhile since I’ve done something outside my routines.  I had the foresight to bring a skein of yarn, and I wound it.  I didn’t look outside the window much, but having the luxury of doing this activity that is so darn slow, during this period of life that is so darn fast, in the  foreign environment of the bus, it kind of reminded me of travelling.  I realized:  I was on a little trip, and it was kind of fun.

Not all fun, of course.  I knew why I was there, and unfortunately the hospital routines weren’t new.  The ward was familiar, I knew where the cafeteria and restaurants were, I even recognized a nurse.  Then there were the IVs, the patterned blue-green hospital gowns, the bloodied bandages, the pain pump, the man lying immobile in the bed.

But somehow, as unpredictable as it may be, it also felt good, even vacation-like, to be there.  Ben and I are at ease in hospitals, and Ben’s clarity about pursuing this surgery helps us get through.

Also, I was there for six hours straight.  Six hours.  Just with Ben.  I was not distracted with taking care of little people and I was especially focused on Ben’s needs and comforts.  I felt both pain and tenderness at seeing Ben in this vulnerable place, yet again.  I sought to make myself useful and care for him.

In his turn, Ben took obvious pleasure in me being there.  He had said he didn’t need me to come.  Perhaps technically that’s true, just as perhaps technically I didn’t need to be there.  Except that we really did.

It may be strange, but it brought to mind Beth-Anne’s recent post about rejuvenating her marriage through a trip to Paris.  Ward F4, Room 3 offers neither champagne cocktails nor room service, but it had its charms.  Principal among these was that, like Beth-Anne in Paris, I was not the bossy, exhausted mother in this room.  I was the woman who loves.  Enjoying Ben’s sense of humour, remembering how easy conversation can be, knowing how he tries to defy pain, watching him struggle to stay awake through morphine to not miss any visiting time, all of it reminded me of a compatibility and affection that was born a long time ago.

It wasn’t Paris.  It was me and Ben in a dingy, shared hospital room.  And it was great.

We’ll Always Have Paris

Before I had children, I had a vague notion that my life would change but really nothing can prepare someone for the complete transformation that occurs once baby makes his arrival.

Gone was my self-centeredness.  It wasn’t a conscience shift.  I didn’t have some sort of epiphany.  It was much simpler than that: I just didn’t have the time to focus on myself anymore.

I was quite blinded when it came to my marriage.  I was naïve to think that my relationship would somehow escape the trials of parenthood unscathed.

Somewhere between diaper changes and car shuttles to skating lessons, I opened my eyes to the fact that my husband and I were becoming a cliché: ships passing in the night.  Each of us charting our own course: me, on a quest to be the perfect mother and him the perfect provider.

Both of us were unintentionally neglecting the very glue that holds our precious family together.

It happened in a natural flurry, the shift between coupledom and insta-family.  Our relationship comfortably grew and evolved but in the mess and mire that is parenthood, such a connection between partners can easily fray.

We try to maintain balance with regular “date-nights” but the idea of spending a week away from the kids, our home and all of our responsibilities was exactly what we needed to recharge our selves and our relationship.

Paris gave us a chance to slip off our mother/father identities and try on our former selves.  Our time away was reminiscent of when we were dating.  Amazingly, we fell back into our familiar ways.  No longer was I the bossy, exhausted mother – always pressed for time.   I laughed.  A lot.  We blew off the museums in favour of champagne cocktails and afternoon naps.  We ate late.  Really late.  When normally I would be sleeping.

Without the constraints of time we aimlessly wandered the cobblestone streets and found ourselves.

On the plane heading home, I was as giddy a newlywed; full of promise and renewal, the balance restored.  I watched my husband sitting across the aisle casually sop up the mess from a spilled drink and the little girl beside him fidgeting on her wet seat.  I was overwhelmed with emotion.

In the quiet of that moment, I saw him as the easy-going young man that I had married, the compassionate father he had become and the husband that I have always loved.

 

Restoring Balance

The equinox marks a shift.  The day and the night are equal and balance is restored (albeit for a fleeting moment).  This week I am restoring the balance between motherhood and being a wife.

This week the the teeter-totter is about to become  level as I take in the City of Lights with my husband.

This week it is all about being a wife, a partner and a friend.  This week is for us.  Balance restored! (albeit for a fleeting moment).

photo credit: http://stubwah1.wordpress.com

You Can Meet Your Lover Anywhere

Three words:  Fairlawn Medical Centre.

It’s 2002.  I’m minding my own business at the drop-in medical clinic where my doctor works.  He spends real time with his patients, which is unusual and nice; the downside is wait times for appointments, especially at the drop-in, are always well over an hour.  I felt sick enough by some ailment to leave the law office and sit in a germy medical one instead and wait for an appointment.

I have already sat there in silence for 40 minutes with several other patients when in walks a man.  I can’t see his face, but he’s tall and broad-shouldered.

I am a sucker for height and broad shoulders, so I pay attention to this new arrival.  He waits to speak to the receptionist, who is having a hard time explaining some policy to another patient.  The new arrival, curving his shoulders and bending his height down, attempts to facilitate the explanation.  I’m not sure how mcuh he helps, but his intention is kind, his voice is patient.

I am a sucker for kindness and patience too, so I am delighted to discover, when he does finally turn around, that his face is agreeable too.  I catch his eye and smile.  He smiles back.

He sits two chairs away from me.  I am hardly a veteran of the pick-up (having usually waited to be noticed), but I know I am going to talk to this man.  I am conscious that I am wearing a buttoned up navy blue trench coat and steel-rimmed glasses; I am not exactly working it.  I am also conscious that I am in a small room with several other patients and the receptionist, with whom I have not struck up a conversation and who will hear every word of the one I hope to have.  Never mind.

The man has raised earphones to his ears.  I wait.  After a couple of minutes and some eye contact, he removes them from his ears.  I seize the day.  “What are you listening to?” I ask.

I think this opener has some savvy.  The talking goes smoothly.  I discover that his name is Ben and he is a squash pro.  I like this; I am bored of the professional types I am mostly surrounded by.

After half an hour or so, my name is finally called for the doctor.  My time is up.  I hadn’t thought about this, the close.  Hastily I suggest that Ben give me a call if he’d like to have lunch sometime.  He says something like “for sure”.  My fingers seek out the business card that my assistant hasn’t yet ordered; silently I curse her.  My name is called out again.  I lurch forward and grab one of the doctor’s business cards off the reception counter and fumble around in my bag for a pen.  Out comes a highlighter.  Oh look, here’s another highlighter.

I think it’s Ben who provides me with a pen.  I scratch down my name and number at work and meet the attendant who is now waiting for me in the waiting room.  A quick goodbye to Ben in front of my little active-listening audience.

Then I’m by myself again in a little room waiting for the doctor.  I would like to fold myself into a little origami nothing, I am so embarassed by my un-savvy display.  No wonder no one tries this, I think.

Still, walking home after my appointment, even while feeling foolish, I am just a little bit proud of myself for having made my fledgling effort.  To put myself out there, to not wait for someone else’s action, to engage mysefl in the life that is flowing all around.  I know somehow it’s a good thing.

The next day, Ben called.

We went out for dinner, not lunch.

Of course I love this story because it’s our story.  But I also love it because it’s evidence that love is everywhere, waiting to be tapped, in even the most unlikely places.  Because if you can meet your lover for life at a drop-in medical clinic, you can meet him anywhere.

We’re extending our giveaway for a day, so you can still enter!  We’ll be posting the winner on Monday, February 21.  Have you left a comment yet? We want to send you and your favourite person out on a date night to the movies!  Check out Monday’s post for details . . . don’t be shy.  Enter and there’s a good chance that you’ll win!

Vote Early, Vote Often

Photo by Alexander Synaptic (ektoplazm.com).

September 6, 1990. It was the first week of university, and I was at Orientation.

I had just spent fifteen long minutes clutching the black receiver of a residence pay phone, tipsily swaying while expressing my condolences to the campaign manager of the provincial election candidate for whom I’d spent a good part of my summer working. The candidate was, by all accounts, about to go down in spectacular defeat. The provincial election campaign had been decided that day, and the NDP had prevailed over the incumbent Liberals.

I felt as if I’d wasted the summer. But I was secretly pleased: had my candidate won, I’d have been obliged to go to the victory party, and I was having too much fun where I was.

I hung up the phone, took several swigs from whatever alcoholic concoction was being handed out at the residence floor party, tossed the cup in the nearest garbage, and made my way outside.

The Victoria College Quad was all abuzz. Drunken frosh gathered in clumps everywhere – some sat on the grass, others on the benches outside the men’s residences. I made my way over to where some familiar people stood – people I’d met through my orientation group.

I’m not sure how I ended up talking to this one guy. I just remember that we talked for while. I complained about the election results, lamenting my paper cuts and door-knockers’ wrist. He told me that his mother, who worked for one of the Provincial Ministers, had just lost her job. I agreed he had it worse than me. What else we talked about, I don’t entirely recall. But I do recall that I thought he was cute. And that after we went our separate ways that night, I never saw him again.

Fast forward three years. I’m at this point dating Peter, who I met on the Orientation planning Executive. We had both been encouraged to join the Exec by a mutual friend. Peter and I marveled at the fact that we had never once met before the end of second year, even though we ran in some of the same circles and had a number of friends in common. We chalked that up to being a part of the University of Toronto experience – with so many undergrads, you could see the same person in class every day for a year, but lose track of them and chances were good you wouldn’t see them again until graduation.

One night, we were out at the pub together, and we started talking about that night in September and the election. Peter mentioned that he remembered actually leaving campus to go and vote, since it was his first election after turning 18 and he didn’t want to miss it. I admit that I had, too. For the same reason.

One of us made a crack about how we’re meant for each other. Peter then mentions how he recalls spending a whole lot of time that night chatting with a girl who had worked on the election campaign, and how annoyed she’d been with the results. Not really hearing what he’s saying, I cut in with my own story about the guy I met that night who was really grumpy since he’d left campus and trekked all the way home, hung over, specifically to go vote, and how his mother had lost her job that day.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

“That was you!”

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Once Upon a Time . . .

St. George Greek Orthodox Church - The Back Drop To Our Lives (where we met, married and baptized all three of our children)

Once upon a time, circa 1996, an awkward sixteen-year-old girl dressed in a puce, empire-waist, accordion-pleated bridesmaid dress, met a boy.   A dark-haired, dark-eyed, slightly older boy.  Seconds after our initial meeting, we were walking arm in arm down the aisle.  The foreshadowing couldn’t get more obvious.

I have a real-life fairy-godmother.  It was at my godmother’s wedding that she introduced me to her new brother-in-law.  I had recently turned 16 and loved that this good-looking 19 year-old boy, sipping on his alcoholic drink was talking to me! We spent much of the night together.  I listened to him tell me all about university and living on his own.  He told me about his family, the summers at his family cottage, he pointed out relatives and commented on their jerky, wielding movements on the dance floor.  At the end of the night we had made promises to stay in touch and see each other again.

We did see each other a few times.  What happened then, “the lost years”, is interpreted differently by each of us.  He feels that I rejected him and ignored his calls.  I remember it differently.  I remember it being my calls that went unanswered.

In the fall of 2001, just a few days before my 21st birthday, I literally bumped into that dark-haired, dark-eyed boy, in the back alley of a church.  We were gathered to celebrate the baptism of my godmother and her husband’s twin babies.  The re-meet was slightly awkward.  Lots of time had passed and neither of us sure what to say to the other.

We spent much of the lunch making polite small talk but when I went to leave, he pulled the ultimate slickster move and slid his crisp, newly printed business card into my hand and suggested that I call him the next time that I was in the city.  I didn’t think that I would, but did.

I spent much of that last year of my university days driving the 90 minutes between my run-down student house in the small town I attended school and his urban condo in the “big city”.

The rest is history.  We’ve been married for 6 years and have three little boys and have been blessed with so many things to be thankful for.

FYI:

According to an online Forbes survey, 4% of people meet their future spouse at a wedding.  You’ll have to take my word for it. I can’t seem to find the link to prove it!

 

 

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