Marriage is Like Football: You Can't Cross the Goal Line if You Keep Fumbling the Ball

Around this time of year is the anniversary of my first date with Hubby 15 years ago. Sometimes we can't believe we've made it this far. We've actually known each other since we were in second grade. We attended the same huge Catholic elementary school together. Despite having been in the same class of 35 kids together three times, our paths rarely crossed.

He went to an all-boys high school, and I went to an all-girls high school, and again, our paths rarely crossed. He went to all the parties (had some of the parties) and I stayed home . . .a lot. When I did see him out and about, he always greeted me with a huge smile and a "Nice to see you!" Hubby is just a really nice guy.

It wasn't until much later in our twenties that we met up again and, well, here we are. But the unbelievable part is that we even made it this far because of all the fumbles that were made along the way, mostly by me. After all, a guy can't cross the goal line if one of his players keeps fumbling the ball.

Fumble #1: When he finally called me to talk, I called him a loser. He called me on a Friday night, so I called him a loser for not having anything better to do.

Touchdown: I said yes when he asked me out.

Fumble #2: While on our first date, I told one of his female friends that we were not on a date. In fact, I kept insisting we were not on a date. She kept insisting we were. I still didn't think it was a real date.

Touchdown: I accepted a second date, and I picked him up wearing really short shorts and a tight t-shirt, I might add. Not a date, my former skinny ass.

Fumble #3: While watching our state's football team at a bar with all of Hubby's friends, one said something to me about Hubby being my boyfriend. Now, you have to understand how much I hate when girls go out on one or two dates with a guy and start calling him her boyfriend right away. That gives us all a bad name. So I said simply, "He's not my boyfriend," because I didn't want Hubby to think I was a psycho.

Yeah, that backfired.

Hubby still has his Hanes in a bunch over that. Every time he tells the story, and he does a lot, the emphasis will get bigger. It's grown from, "He's NOT my boyfriend!" to "HE'S NOT MY BOYFRIEND!"

Touchdown: I decided about a week later that he really was my boyfriend.

Fumble #4: (This one was Hubby's.) We had traveled to Kansas City for the weekend right before Christmas. We were having such a wonderful time, the mood was right at dinner, and I felt he was on the verge of proclaiming his love so I leaned across the table and I told him I loved him. He said, "Whoa, whoa, whoa . . .I wasn't thinking that!" Screeeeeech. Crap.

Touchdown: He got up in the morning and warmed the shower up for me. It really is the little things that give away how they feel.

Fumble #5: A couple months later we were sitting in the airport waiting for our flight to Chicago. I was taking him for his birthday. We were talking about this and that, and he asked me who my best friend was. I started rattling off some girls from college and asked who his was. He said, "Well, you, of course." Awww . . .

Touchdown: I took him to Chicago for his birthday. Duh. We had an awesome time!

Fumble #6: I almost missed my proposal. It was New Year's Eve 1999. We went out and had a great time. We watched fireworks downtown, met some random people (whom Hubby told we would be married someday and I didn't get it), and spent time with my family. The whole time, I am drinking bottle after bottle of wine . . .and I was feeling fine. At one point I left the party to go somewhere with my sister-in-law, and Hubby was freaking out! Little did I know, he had a plan. A plan that was to happen at the stroke of midnight on the New Millennium. He carted me off back to my apartment a few minutes before, and as the fireworks went off on t.v., he got down on one knee and proposed.

Touchdown: I said yes.

Fumble #7: A cake debacle. I insisted on having a certain baker make our cake. I had seen his cakes at the bridal shows and loved them. We were to meet with him one night after work to discuss our wedding cake. Hubby was stressed about having to take his Boards and just wanted me to decide, but I insisted he come with me. The baker, who was very flamboyant, proceeded to talk to us for two hours about other people's weddings. He drew one picture of our cake the whole time, to which we agreed. Hubby left fuming over the study time he wouldn't get back.

But here's the kicker: when the cake arrived at our wedding, it wasn't even the one we had ordered! Twelve years later, Hubby is still bitter about that.

Touchdown: The cake was lovely and delicious, and our wedding was so beautiful and fun that it didn't ruin our day at all.

So, long story short, despite some fumbles along the way, here we are fifteen years later. Neither our relationship nor our marriage are perfect, and we've obviously had our challenges. We've had low points and high points and more low points, but our current thinking is that if we can keep working toward the goal line together, even if we fumble the ball along the way, we'll get there.

Here's to many more touchdowns along the way.


*This post was originally published in August 2013. 

Did you and your spouse have any SNAFUS along your relationship road?

A Frog Among the Toads

I have been having so much fun the past week featuring Father's Day guest posts from my readers!  I truly believe that everyone has a story to share, and each is important and touching in its own way.  A huge thank you to all of my guest writers, especially those of you who stepped out of your comfort zones to share your stories.  If you haven't read them, take some time to scroll back.

That said, I haven't forgotten about my own amazing husband, the father to my children.  So now it's time to share my story...

parachutingfish.com

I never gave much thought to the kind of father I wanted my future husband to be.  I knew I wanted a tall, dark, handsome, romantic man to be my husband.  I assumed that a guy like that would also be a kick-ass dad.

Then, one summer night, in the midst of partying with my friend, D, I ran into a guy who was the complete opposite of all that.

He was not so tall, had blond, thinning hair, was comically adorable, and he just so happened to be someone I had known since I was eight years old.

Hubby had attended the same Catholic grade school as me.  With 120 kids in each grade, however, we didn't cross paths very often.  And although we hung out in totally different social circles in high school (he with the cool party crowd, me in the shy, non-party crowd), he always spoke to me.  And he was always nice.

And he was a gentleman!  Most of the toads guys I dated in my twenties were, to be frank, just trying to get into my pants.  And that was so not my style (nothing against you gals who enjoyed your sexuality - more power to you, sistas, as long as you were safe about it).  But this guy didn't even try to kiss me for a long time (I won't say how long and embarrass him, but it was a good month and a half after our first date).

So as time went on, I fell for him more and more, especially after I saw the way he interacted with his twenty nieces and nephews at the time.  They adored him, and I came to as well.  This darling little frog became my handsome prince.

Needless to say, we got married, and here we are just having celebrated our eleventh anniversary last week.

Might I mention here that hardly anything about the past eleven years has been particularly easy?  But I think you know that; after all, that's why many of you come here to read.

First there was the bit about the infertility.  Hubby and I didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on how to proceed with that, but he knew having my own baby was desperately important to me, so he did what I wanted to do to make that happen.

And having twins gave him the first opportunity to show me just what an amazing dad and husband he is.  He had to be involved right away.  He kind of had no choice.  Since Slim was born with a cleft lip and palate and couldn't nurse, Hubby pretty much took over his care and feeding when he was home.  We would alternate cuddling and bathing the twins, and Hubby even jumped right in with all the routines I insisted were so important like tummy time and board book time and silly songs time.

Even after we moved halfway across the country to New York, and he would be gone for days at a time, on - call at hospitals in three different boroughs, he would still jump into his daddy role as soon as he was home. 

Is that a real man or what?!?  I know
you're jealous.

After Baby Knox was born, Hubby pretty much took over the care of both twins.  Every night he would give them baths while I nursed the baby.  It absolutely floors me when women tell me that their husbands have never given their children a bath.  Hubby still to this day helps the boys with their baths and showers every night.

When Joey was sick, Hubby was on his computer each night desperately trying to find some morsel of hope, some place we could take him for a miracle treatment, even though he knew none would be found.

I will never ever forget the moment Joey died, and Hubby said over and over to me, "I'm so sorry," because he knew how much I adored that child and how incredibly broken my heart was.

Hubby and Joey

And I will never forget how scared I was to tell him that I was pregnant after Joey died because I thought he would be mad, but he just said, "Huh," as if I had told him it was raining outside when no rain was predicted, and I let out a sigh of relief.

I don't think he wanted as many children as we have, but he knew I wanted them, and he has loved and cared for each of them with all his heart.

His favorite part of the day is when they all run up to him when he comes home from work.  A parade of little boys shouting, "Daaaadeeeee!!!!"  Hugs and a tumble of words as they all try to tell him about their day.

I know he secretly loves it when they fight over who gets to sit next to him at dinner.

And the twinkle in his eyes when one of them calls him his best friend...priceless.

Hubby and Knox on the fishing boat.

I had asked him to write a Father's Day guest post for me, but he hesitated, using his poor writing skills as an excuse.  Later he admitted to me that lately he hasn't felt like he's been doing too great of a job at the dad thing.

Oh, Sweetie, we all feel like that sometimes!

But I would have to say, hands down, Hubby is one of the best dads I know.  And I'm not just saying that because he buys me pretty things and treats me like a queen (believe me, that totally helps - you know "if mama ain't happy" and all that).

We make no secret about the fact that our marriage takes a hit every time we have another baby.  It's a stressful time for both of us, and he has to share me with some other little dude who also likes my breasts.

Our marriage took a huge hit when Joey was sick, a scary hit.  People thought we were so strong and together, but the reality is that we barely talked to each other because neither of us wanted to talk at all.

And this blog...this blog hits us, too, because I will send my thoughts out to cyberspace, but not tell Hubby about them.

Sometimes I wonder why he loves me the way he does, why he treats me like a queen.

I will say to him, "Do you know I love you?'  And he will always answer, "You do?" like this is news to him.

The only news is what I want to shout from every headline, "My Hubby is an amazing dad and husband!"

He puts up with my secretive, emotional crap.

He works harder than he really wants to just to give our boys wonderful experiences and childhood memories.

He never complains about his co-parenting duties - he just does them.

He sees each of our sons as individuals and treats them as such.

He is funny and takes a creative approach to parenting, especially when I am frustrated and out of ideas.

He speaks eloquently, feels deeply, loves unconditionally.

I told him on our anniversary that I was in this for the long-haul.  It's been a long-ass haul already, and I know there are many more tough times in our future; but it's him I want to haul-ass with.  It's him that makes me a better person, who challenges me to see the good in myself and our boys when my vision becomes clouded.  It's him who doesn't play into any one's bullshit, who calls them on it, in fact.

It's him. My Prince.

He's the frog that I kissed, that unexpected little frog among the toads who came out of nowhere and showed me just what an amazing man, husband, father he really is.

You know I love you, Sweetie...I know you do.

Life is What Happens

...while you're busy making other plans.

Ever since I was young, one of my biggest plans was to meet my prince, fall madly in love and marry, then have at least half a dozen babies.  I'd have my own Brady Bunch, complete with a set of boy/girl twins.  We'd all live happily in a big house, get along great, and enjoy huge family holidays with lots of grandkids and pets.

Well, some of that went according to plan...

It took me about 28 years to finally meet the frog that would be my prince.  I say frog, not as an insult, but my prince was disguised as someone I had known since second grade.  We married at age 31, and after some debate over how long we would wait until we started "trying," we realized that starting our "bunch" was not going to be a piece of cake.  Fourteen months, one miscarriage, and two rounds of Clomid later, we found ourselves seeking the help of a fertility doctor.  My plan was not moving along accordingly, so I found someone to help it along.

Four months later, we were pregnant with twins...two boys.  I was so thrilled to finally be pregnant!  I couldn't wait to buy maternity clothes and have baby showers and listen to friends and strangers in stores gush about my pregnancy.

That plan changed, too.  At twenty weeks, I found out I was in preterm labor and would have to spend the remainder of my pregnancy on bed rest.

Oh, and there was something wrong with one of the babies, too.

After fourteen and a half weeks sitting virtually alone in my house (thankfully not the hospital), our twins were born three hours and two minutes apart (so not in the plan either!).  Baby "B," Slim, had a bilateral cleft lip and palate, that, while a challenge initially and something we will be dealing with the majority of his life, proved to be totally fixable and certainly not life-threatening.

My next plan included play dates with my friends and Gymboree classes and Kindermusik.

Then Hubby threw a wrench in that one by deciding it would be in his best interest to transfer residency programs and move us to New York.  The babies were seven months old.  It scared me on so many levels that went far beyond 9/11.

We were to be there only two years, and that part went as planned.  I thought, even though two years was a long time to wait to have another baby (I had to get my half dozen and I was 34 and infertile after all), we would try again at the end of the residency and return home pregnant.

And then, surprise!  I got pregnant with another boy when the twins were eleven months old!  So there I was in New York with three babies under the age of two, "schlepping" them all over Long Island to Slim's plastic surgeon and ENT appointments.

We returned home to the Midwest after our two years out East, bought a beautiful home, had another miscarriage, and added another baby boy to our bunch.  We were 37 with four little boys under the age of four. Hubby was done; I was not.

Then in April of 2009, something happened that no one ever has in her plans.  One of our precious sons was diagnosed with a terminal illness.

Sometime during his 14 month illness, my plan changed, my mind was changed for me.  I would have to accept the fact that I would only have three sons, no daughters, and not six children as I had planned.

I suffered another miscarriage during this time, and while the two others had left me crying for days, I was confused about how I felt about this one.  I desperately wanted another child, but what if having a new baby and our son's illness were too much for us to handle? I accepted it as the door closing on the "baby" chapter in my life and moved on to a new plan.

I gave away and sold almost all of my baby items and maternity clothes as I turned forty last spring.  Forty was always my cut-off age -- no babies after forty.  Too risky, and after what we had been through with our son, I couldn't handle any more heartache.  No, my "babies" were all entering school, I was going to start writing with my extra free time, and Hubby and I were planning a trip to Hawaii for our ten year anniversary.

Well, guess what?

Yes, I am due in June with our fifth child, and I am scared to death.  I am scared it will have a chromosomal abnormality or some other birth defect that I am not equipped to handle. I am scared it will be fine and then one day someone will tell us it has some awful condition just like our other son.  I am scared Hubby and I will never get to Hawaii.  I am scared it will be a girl, and I will have no idea how to raise her.  I am scared it will be another boy!

The "plan" is for my big ultrasound to take place next week.  I know some of these fears will be addressed, and I will be able to plan at least the nursery colors.  What I also know, what I have slowly learned in my forty years is that it's okay to make a plan, but also plan for it not to work out precisely as you'd envisioned.  I can sit here and wish for the daughter I've always wanted or a super good baby that could travel to Hawaii with us anyway, but all I really want is a healthy baby that grows and develops normally.

That's the plan anyway . . .

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