Jealous of the Cat

Sometimes, I am jealous of the cat.  

Yes, it is embarrassing.  

The thing is, she is in my husband’s lap every time he sits down.  She looks at him and he pets her, and when no one is looking, they meow at each other.  (Only, we are looking and we laugh at them.)

I’ve come to realize when our time at home increases, the cat’s time with my husband is also sure to increase, but my time may or may not.  After all, she demands it, and feels no shame about being needy.  No shame at all.

But, I’m a quality-timer, too, and while I am content with the time I get with my husband most of time, I am not content all of the time.  And in those times, I am jealous of the cat.

Ever heard that open mouths are the ones who get fed?  Sometimes, like today, I care more about getting what I need than about my pride, so I open my mouth and admit I need a little time (and that I am jealous of the cat).  

Yes, I said it!  You might guess this would get at least an eyeroll or blow up and out as a ridiculous notion that didn’t warrant a compassionate response, but you would be wrong.  Or, you might guess that it would lead to a conversation about cat behavior, that I am not at all interested in, and you would be right.  But, even that is better than most any other possibility.  

My husband graciously and generously granted my wish (like a really handsome genie) and we walked, and talked.  By the time we were through, I realized that mainly, I don’t want our lives and the interactions they consist of, to be in passing.  

Boys need to build stuff, fix bikes, replace brakes on trucks, and go hunting and fishing.  They make it known and they get the time they need to do those things with their Dad.  Wives need…  Well, wives need none of those things.  Not this wife, anyway.

There is no existing hobby or project that leads to sitting on the driveway for an afternoon or in a hunting blind all weekend.  Not for this wife. There’s always plenty to do in and around the house, but those things have fallen comfortably into his and hers, and rarely the two shall meet.  

We’ve hiked, canoed, and golfed, and there are a lot of things we haven’t tried.  Of course, I can also sit idly by watching his projects, go hunting, or any number of things to gain time.  But, “it shouldn’t be so hard” lurks in the background and suggests that something is wrong with the arrangement.

Thankfully, I’ve seen a lot of hard situations in marriage and know that this is a lot of crap.  (Please, excuse the term.)  Imagine being the keeper of all of your spouse’s memories when they don’t even know your name.  “It shouldn’t be so hard” needs to be checked early and often.  Its insistence doesn’t make it true.  Just because something is natural or beautiful or noble, doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be hard. Breastfeeding, anyone?

In the end, I got what I needed with the walking and talking, and know that healthy relationships must undergo and remain open to negotiation.

As love matures, it also learns to “negotiate”.  Far from anything selfish or calculating, such negotiation is an exercise of mutual love, an interplay of give and take, for the good of the family.  At each new stage of married life, there is a need to sit down and renegotiate agreements, so that there will be no winners and losers, but rather two winners.” Pope Francis, Amoris Laetitia, The Joy of Love

Meow.

Life's Pages

I've been thinking about writing a book for as long as people have been telling me I should, which has been awhile now.

My husband insists I have "a book in me" and breakfast with one of my dearest friends always starts with the same question.  "Have you found a publisher, yet?"

Honestly, I laugh at the thought of having anything left to write (and the irony of this post in light of that).  Ecclesiastes and nothing-new-under-the-sun are forerunners in reasons why not.  There is no storehouse of ideas, or anything within me that feels like it is waiting to be written.   

Perhaps, it is what I've already written, they suggest.  

While this is very nice and affirming, it hasn’t proven a springboard for anything other than good feelings about what has already been done. 

But, occasionally things happen which feel like a nudge toward something. Things that make me think that maybe I shouldn’t rule it out.  Not just, yet.

Little things like little questions in little blue books that say, “Take something that feels big and make it smaller.  What is the first step?”

And big things, like meeting a new hospice patient and her family. Carol.  Her greatness unfolded right there at the kitchen table, in part, but not exclusively borne of her length of years.  I admired her bright eyes, painted fingernails, and her paintings on the walls.  

I inquired about whether she'd ever consider writing a book.  Her daughter-in-law replied that she already had.  Her son disappeared from the table and placed it into my very hands.

I had to fight back tears, and said as much.  Not just because she'd done the work of it, but because an aggressive dementia has closed the window of time when doing any such thing again would be out of the question.  She simply stated that she started with a table of contents, went as far back as she could remember, and went from there.  

I’ve only just begun to read it, but I am in awe of it.  Its cover, contents, and weight.  I think about all that has happened within her life and its pages, and wonder how much of it she remembers or would have been lost without her rendition.

She reminds me that there is more than one reason to write a book. For yourself, now.  For your family.  For hospice chaplains and interested strangers.  For profit, if you have the means.  And for yourself, later.

Only the last reason might be the one for me.  The one that pushes me over the edge from dreaming to doing.  What if by writing these things now, I can revisit my life again as me with intimate knowledge or as an outsider who has forgotten?  As one who admires the main character in the story, but has forgotten I was her?  Or as one who gains some warmth of soul by hearing a “new” story written in a really, really, really familiar way?  

Carol’s first chapter begins with a quote by James Barrie. “God gave us memories that we might have June roses in the December of our lives.”  

Thank God for difficult ideas and realities put simply and beautifully. 

And thank God for Carol and the Prestenbach family, The Bends In My Road, and the ability to inspire at every age and in every circumstance.  For June roses in December, thoughtful planting, safe-keeping, and books waiting to be written…