Sometimes, almost is enough

Last Friday, Doug and I were sitting on the couch discussing our plans for the weekend. As far as our weekends go, they typically involve me taking Daniel to do something really cool and fun while Doug stays at home and slaves away over his final college assignment. And when I say final, I. Mean. Final.

Most weekends we have a birthday party or some other event on Saturday with church and a visit with my parents on Sunday. It's getting old. Really old. I'm tired of having to share Daniel's life with Doug via, "Daniel! Tell Daddy what you did today!" Of course it was fun (and unique) to go to the zoo alone with Daniel, but reliving the experience for Daddy when we get home is a far cry from Daddy actually getting to take part in the fun. Sundays are almost worse. It's been nice to get into a church-going routine, but there's just something not quite right about attending church without your spouse. It feels. . . bleh. It just feels wrong. Not to mention that the "family time" we spend at my parents' house afterwards is missing a big, ol' chunk of our family.

At any rate, we were on the couch, discussing our weekend plans, and it occurred to me that Doug will be finished with school in two. More. Weekends. I was sitting there telling him what things I had planned for Daniel and me for the next few weekends and WHAM! It hit me that we had a swim date, a youth fair, and a birthday party and we. Are. Done. (Please forgive the heavy emphasis - this is just a really. Big. Deal.)

I almost burst into tears. Knowing that the end is in sight, knowing that I only have to make it through two more weekends sans hubby, knowing that we're almost there - this time? It was enough. It's been enough to vault me into some place of higher understanding that everything - everything - is temporary. These last eight years of really, really hard work and really, really long nights of missing my husband while he trudges through the mud of academia have been temporary. One day (hopefully in the not-too-distant future) we'll look back on this season of our lives and we'll say, "Wow. That was hard. How did we do that?" We'll be on to t-ball, soccer, PTA, and Lord knows what else, and we'll look back on this part of our journey and we'll know that it was temporary. It's over. It was hard, but it's over.

Sometimes, almost isn't good enough. Sometimes, almost means the difference in making it and not making it. It means something more concrete. But this time? This time almost is enough. We're almost there. And ya know? For the first time in eight years, I can wait.

Hair, hair, hair

I don't have a new pic to upload of my hair from the back, so this will have to work (note Daniel's ponytail - mine is marginally longer). It's growing, alright. My dad - who still offers me Cokes with every meal even though I gave them up for my New Year's Resolution in 1997 - asked me today if I was growing out my hair. If my poor, unobservant daddy noticed, it must be growing.

It's also starting to drive me a little (read - a LOT) crazy. It's touching me. It makes my neck sweat at night. I don't like it. My child dislikes the hair drier so I spend most days with it either in a ponytail or just looking like I rolled out of bed and did nothing with it. But I keep reminding myself of the annoying things cancer patients must deal with. Nausea. Shunts jabbed into their arms. Fatigue. Pain. Funny looks from people in public places. I keep reminding myself that my little ponytail is much preferable to a bald head and missing eyebrows. I keep reminding myself that this is supposed to be a selfless act and therefore my discomfort should not be a factor.

I swore that I wouldn't measure it again until Valentine's Day of 2011. I won't, but I did schedule my first trim since November. I plan on asking my stylist how much she thinks it's grown and how much longer she thinks I have to grow. I'm not interested in hard numbers for another 10 months. Although I won't have any numbers to share next month, at least I'll have a picture of pretty, styled hair to share. That should be nice - not just the photo, but the hour to myself in a salon with grown-ups. Always a nice treat!

Until then. . .

How do you love somebody?

I went to church Sunday morning. Alone. For the first time ever (I think). Well, not completely alone. I took Daniel to the nursery, kissed him goodbye, and went to church. It was nice. Really nice. Not to be in church alone, but to be able to drop off my little one and go listen to a sermon my heart really needed to hear.

We've been going to a Presbyterian church. I'm not Presbyterian and neither is Doug. To be honest, I can't even spell Presbyterian half of the time. I'm not sure if a Prayer of Confession is a routine item for these guys, but this Sunday's service featured a Prayer of Confession. Having grown up in the Baptist church, actual "confession" is not something I'm accustomed to. Sure - I ask for forgiveness for particular sins. But I've never been required (or asked) to confess to anyone at any specific time. It didn't make me uncomfortable; it just made me stop and think about my shortcomings (which isn't hard for me to do).

After fumbling around for a bit, I prayed for God to show me how to be a better wife. I confessed that I don't always do and say the things that Doug needs to hear and see. I admitted that sometimes, I don't know exactly how I should be Doug's wife. I even considered that maybe I don't even know what makes Doug feel loved. I asked God to teach me how to better love my husband. Then I teared up a little bit, took a deep breath, and continued listening.

Lo and behold, the sermon was about love. Go figure. We even sang a bit of The Beatles' "All You Need Is Love." The last thing the preacher asked us to do was to 1.) spend the week praying about loving one person in particular and 2.) consider joining a small group. The 2.) part seems disconnected, but she did a really good job of tying it in - be a part of your community and love thy neighbor. Got it.

How often does this really happen? How often do you sit in a pew (or a stadium seat, on a couch, or whatever) and ask God to show you something and then KAPOW! The next words out of the speaker's mouth pertain directly to your plea? Whoa. Wild.

I've challenged myself this week (and hopefully for the rest of my life) to focus on loving Doug the way he wants and needs to be loved. I know how I show love and how I feel love, but Doug's idea is just a smidge different from mine. So the next time I think that washing, drying, folding, and putting away Doug's laundry will make him feel loved, I pray that God will remind me that I'm doing that for myself. What Doug really needs is to be told how much he is loved rather than to be shown.

Memory

I shared a memory with a friend the other night over delicious cheese and several glasses of wine. The more I've relived that memory in the week since, the more real it's become. I love experiences like that. The kind that really affect you when they happen but continue to do so for a full decade after. A two-minute window of life that really gets you in the gut once and then brings you to your knees a thousand times after. A friend who can orchestrate that sort of emotion in me from a thousand miles away without even realizing it is a true friend indeed. Perhaps even a friend of my soul; not just of my mind.

I miss you, Rob. Thanks for the sunflowers.