Carl and I celebrated our one thousandth day of marriage over the weekend.
Celebrated being a term I use loosely to reference the sentiment behind the occasion if not so much the actual occasion. Carl had a raging head cold all weekend, and I… well, after a happy 4 weeks of feeling that maybe there was after all going to be balm in the second trimester, I’ve started feeling nauseous again. Pretty much every night. Not throw up nauseous, thank God. Just queasy nauseous. Disheartening, to say the least, after the craptitude of the first 18 weeks.
Anyway. One thousand days.
Don’t ask me why I know that, by the way. You tend to learn a lot of trivial and obscure factoid when you try to write a novel. It’s amazing the way you’ll be writing along and suddenly really NEED to stop to pull out a calendar and count the exact number of days since you got married or had a bacon/egg sandwich. You know. Vital stuff.
Mostly we spent the weekend putzing around. In fairness, Carl did work on some side project—color correcting photos and working on a map video for a client (most famous with me now for his amazing comment to Carl: “Now, I can’t pay you much, but this needs to be your BEST work”… which, you have to know, still makes me chortle). And I did some work on baby shower stuff for my lovely sister-in-low, caught up on the laundry, did some early Christmas shopping (from the couch via laptop, I admit). So we had little sunbursts of productivity. But mostly it was cookie baking, homemade mac’n’cheese in the crockpot, and Good Wife watching kind of weekend. A surprisingly fitting way of celebrating what has been a marriage of overwhelming comfort.
In a last ditch effort at being useful on Saturday, I decided to sort through all our books and figure out which ones we could donate before we move. Our apartment collects books as fast as it does dust, and I knew there had to be at least a dozen I could stand to part with. I was right, of course, and when I got to our “religious and relational” shelf, I found all the books we’d bought for premarital counseling that I really didn’t see us reading again. One was a work book for engaged couples, and I couldn’t even remember filling any of it out, but I flipped it open to be sure (nothing worse than donating books with oversharing notes and, conversely, nothing better than buying used books with oversharing notes). And yes, Carl had done his part and filled in the first section. I was the one who dropped the ball on that book.
Was an endearing blast from the past to read Carl’s answers—what he expected marriage to be like and our relationship and home together to be like. I have to say, he was pretty much right about everything. And the efficient little answers sort of summed up his whole attitude toward premarital counseling—happy to participate but not even remotely worried about it all.
What is your view on abortion?
It is wrong.
What is your view on birth control?
It is not wrong.
Who will prepare meals and what types of food will you eat?
Kathryn. All kinds.
What are your expectations about sex on your honeymoon?
To have it.
Ha. And then I saw this one:
When you are ill, how much sympathy and attention do you desire? What does being taken care of look and feel like to you?
Medium, he wrote. Being kind, caring, and helping me to fix a meal.
Helping me to fix a meal… Ok, I don’t give hormones much credit, but I will say they make me see the pathos in everything. In technicolor. With violins. I once teared up during a commercial that showed Serena Williams as a child. I don’t even like Serena Williams, but she had so much grit… and determination… and SOB. So when I read about my husband who is currently lying on the couch blowing his nose, writing from the past about how all it would take to make him feel loved is to have help fixing a meal, my pregnant brain went full on Tiny Tim.
And I hadn’t made him bacon with his eggs and toast that morning. Because I was tired. And the bacon was still in the freezer.
I know. I’m pretty much the workhouse matron from Oliver Twist.
So I scuttled across the living room floor to snuggle my poor, sickly man (when you are sick, really the best pick-me-up is to be snugged on by 150 pounds of wife and unborn daughter). And then I cried about bacon.
Clearly, a helpful move in the campaign to make Carl feel better.
But, yeah, that’s the kind of bitter regret and heartache we have in this house after one thousand days of marriage and one hundred and sixty-six days of pregnancy. Sigh.
Life is rough.