I’ll talk about the book pictured above in a minute, but can we first talk about how it’s also a photo of a housewife reading a tawdry romance novel?
One of the hunks I’ve bitten off in the past year is shame. I want to look at how it’s showing up and how I’m dealing with it. One of the most recent examples is that I went from reading mostly historical fiction for much of my adult life, to this year reading a LOT of nonfiction, especially spirituality books.
I wasn’t giving myself a break from this type of reading and was feeling overwhelmed with my reading list and also a little burnt out. When I gave romance a try this spring as a way of giving my brain a break from the nonfiction, I felt a certain amount of shame.
Last week, I sat down on Monday and wrote a post in a state of overwhelm after a good, but crazy, few days. The busy weekend had merged into a disjointed beginning to the week.
This past weekend was quieter and more reflective, and I wanted to save the good parts for posterity.
The weekend started with a work shift Friday night. The out-going nurse gave me a great report – informative and unapologetic, just the way I like it. Over the course of my shift, I had unexpectedly meaningful conversations with a patient and a doctor, and a pretty deep phone conversation with a patient’s significant other.
I came home feeling grateful for the opportunity to connect with other human beings about the meaning of life and what comes after.
I slept like a rock that Saturday when I got home, until 6 p.m. It was the day before my birthday. When I woke up, I came downstairs, still in a bit of a fog. The kitchen was a hive of activity as my family worked to make my birthday dinner.
When we moved to Albany at the beginning of our marriage, I didn’t want to volunteer how long the Chaplain and I had been married. I had graduated from college with a degree in English and a little boy; if I didn’t tell people we met that we’d just gotten married a year ago, they could think the Chaplain was One’s biological dad.
I was crushed by shame, and I thought I needed to do damage control on the genesis of our little family.
Today, we’re celebrating twelve years of marriage, and I’m proud of that number. Acting out a certain story, an “acceptable” one, doesn’t seem that important anymore.
The Chaplain and I finally started earning our marriage chops this year. We had to work for it. It was in turns terrifying and wonderful. I shudder to think what our next challenge might look like in a partnership where we traditionally do things big.
This morning, I’m feeling grateful that we made it. Before, we would never have used the term “we made it,” about our relationship. It was saved for trivial stuff like getting to somewhere on time.
But we did make it. And I’m seeing things differently, communicating differently, loving and trusting differently. It’s a good thing. And I’m interested to see what Year Thirteen has to offer.
Above, one of the photos from our Immigration Interview Photo Album.
When the Chaplain and I got married, we’d known each other for about 60 days. He had lived in the U.S. for a number of years as a college student. Since he was supposed to be leaving for seminary to become a Catholic priest at the end of the summer we met, he was here on a student visa.
When he dropped out of that program to marry me, he lost his status as a student. When we were deciding whether or not to get married, we knew if we didn’t get married, he’d have to go back to Tobago. And he already had bought the ticket to go back home.
My wise Grandma reflected when she heard that we were eloping that she had always said you should know someone through every season before tying the knot. She figured since it’s always summer in Tobago (with temperatures in the mid 80’s year-round, a rainy season and a dry season, I think in this case North-easterners can afford to generalize a little) and we met in the summertime, that we had covered our bases. I have always been grateful for her gracious perspective.
I remember watching Green Card, the 1990 rom com, with my family around that time with my new husband, and it was heh heh funny, not haha funny.
Ever since we’ve been married, my parents have supported the Chaplain and I by keeping the kids so that we can go away by ourselves about once a year.
Last year at this time, we were spending a week in Portland, Oregon together. In fact, it was the first time since I’d become a mom that I’d spent Mother’s Day away from my kids.
The trip felt like an escape for many reasons. The Chaplain was at a stressful, demanding job. I was eight months pregnant with Seven. We had a busy home life. We were tired and tense.
I’d planned the trip on the back of a trip to Portland I’d done with my dad and siblings in 2014. We’d gone to celebrate my dad’s 60th birthday by climbing Mt. Hood. The week was spent hiking, with the mountain climb in the middle.
Building on that, I hoped to revisit my favorite trails, and try one or two new ones. I also wanted to spend some time in downtown Portland, which we hadn’t had time to do on the 2014 trip. The Chaplain and I both had some ideas and recommendations for places to check out in the city. And I really wanted to see a Pacific Coast sunset.
