My husband just pulled out of the yard towing this piece of machinery. I have no idea what it is but it will be used in the palm-tree-moving operation which he is going to begin this weekend down in Apalachicola. The combination of knowing that he's about to truly start breaking ground (in a way) on that project along with knowing that he'll be using that machine has made him about as happy as any man I've ever seen in my life.
In. My. Life.
"Do you know how much I love you?" he asked as I hugged him good-bye. "I am so happy."
"Yes," I said. "Do you know how much I love you?" And I smiled in such a way that he probably knows how happy I am too.
Here's what I know about marriage- it ain't a contest. And anytime a married couple gets into the "I'm right and he's wrong" (or whatever gender is appropriate) mindset, unhappiness is fomented and I don't just mean for one person. And the other side of the coin is that more happiness and more love makes more happiness and more love for both people.
Does this mean that for the sake of peace one person should always give in to the other?
Oh hell no. I just mean that if compromise can be reached, if boundaries can be shifted a bit, if minds and hearts can be opened, the results can be so much more satisfying than any amount of "I told you so."
Or at least that's how it's worked for me.
It's taken me years to figure all of this out. To realize that I may not have the slightest understanding of why my husband needs to do something but that I can purely and truly understand that he absolutely does need to do it.
And who am I to argue with that? It works both ways. He intuitively knows that and I think he always has. And a great deal of this has to do with our different upbringings. And I am so grateful for the way his parents raised him.
It's been a good day. Lily and Jessie came out with Gibson, who is still a little sick but not much, and Maggie and August, and we all went to Monticello and ate at the new pizza joint and then went thrift-shopping.
Here's August and me, walking out to see the goats before we left.
And Gibson and August on the porch, eating pickled okra, the newest favorite snack of all.
Lunch was delicious and the thrift shop was good to us. Gibson got a glockenspiel and Lily and Jessie got some clothes and August got a bag of beautiful alphabet blocks and I got a game of Parcheesi (The Royal Game of India!) to play with my boys the way my granny played it with me.
When Jessie dropped me off at home I went out to the garden and weeded for hours and so you know I'm tired and satisfied, contented and dirty.
I stole these pictures off of Facebook.
First, Jessie and August.
"When your baby tells you very clearly (in his own way) to put your earring in your nose, you do it. And then you feed him some more and let him play with said earring/nose ring until he is too rough. Good times."
That's what she posted with the picture. August is fascinated by the tiny nose-jewel that Jessie has and as every woman who has ever nursed a toddler knows, after a certain point, the child gets bored with simply eating and absolutely must entertain themselves with whatever is at hand which usually involves Mama's face or hair or nose or other nipple. This is just the way of it.
And here's what Lily posted.
"Harry Potter helps a muggle baby"
A precious muggle baby.
When Jessie brought me home, we sat in the car for a moment and talked about my blog. About how it's been so wonderful to have these reports of what goes on in our lives with the pictures, too. She told me she's gone back several times to read my account of August's birth and I cried.
This blog is the record of one family in the United States of America in one period of time. Of how we live and fall in love, how we eat and how we work and how we play and how we stay in love. Of our worries and our fears, our joys and our struggles, our kisses and snuggles. Of how we are born and welcomed into the world, how we grow and how we change. What we dream and what we bear. What makes us laugh and what makes us cry.
Here's another picture.
This is what I find every night when I go to close the hen house. Mick, sleeping on Trixie. Bizarrely, I have never seen any poop on her when I let them out in the morning. I have no idea how that works.
This is also a blog which acknowledges and celebrates the great mysteries.
Once again, thanks for coming along.