Writing hasn’t really been a top priority this summer. I can’t keep up with my laundry and dishes, let alone my blog. Sorry, blog. My husband had shoulder surgery right before Memorial Day, so I’ve been dealing with pseudo-single-motherhood since then. And it’s been pretty much exactly what I expected it to be. Rough. And exhausting.
It’s taken a toll on my creative outlet. Everything I write comes out as a list of grievances. I wrote something on Saturday that I can’t post because it would probably hurt someone’s feelings. I thought just writing it would help me feel better, but it didn’t. I showed it to my husband and he kindly discouraged me from publishing it. To which I moped around for the rest of the morning griping about how my life is so unfair. It’s like I’m a teenager again. Except I was a pretty mellow teenager. I was rarely this angsty.
My anniversary has been one of the many targets of my angst this weekend. Saturday marked both our 3 year wedding anniversary and our 1 year anniversary of being in our house. In the past we haven’t done anything really special for anniversaries, but we also spent a majority of our time alone and went on plenty of dates. This year is different, though. We’ve added a baby to our family and my brother happens to be living with us this summer. In theory, this makes for a built-in babysitter, but in reality babysitting really isn’t my brother’s thing. And we feel stupid asking someone else to babysit when my brother is right there. This equals out to very little waking alone time. So I assumed the time had come to make a special effort to go do something fun together. Alone. Or at the very least with our baby tagging along.
And then my husband off handedly mentioned that he got tickets for us to go with my in-laws to their city celebration. Which happened to be on our anniversary.
I was a little hurt that eating salmon, hanging with family, and watching fireworks sounded more ideal to him than spending time alone with me and my angst. But I guess I can’t really blame him. Sometimes I want a break from me. And that salmon is pretty good.
So we settled on going out to dinner the night before our anniversary because my parents were going to be visiting anyway, and they could watch the baby.
A couple days before the weekend I happened to catch my husband texting my mom. When I asked him about it, he gave a sly little excuse, and I thought I could see right through it.
This was how it was playing out in my mind: He was planning to whisk me away for a little overnighter on Friday under the pretense of dinner, and my parents were going to stay the night with the baby. It totally made sense. Both he and my mom had encouraged me to buy some formula as backup for the baby. The pieces were coming together.
When Friday night came along, I was anxious to go “to dinner.” I wondered when he’d reveal the real plan. When we were deciding where to go for dinner, he mentioned that we probably shouldn’t go too far so that my parents could get back home before it got too late. I started to be a little doubtful of my imagined plan.
We got seated and served in record time at Texas Roadhouse. Which was bizarre, seeing as it was 7 on a Friday night. And then we went home. It was quite literally the shortest date of my life. I was even more doubtful that I was about to be whisked away, but my hopes weren’t completely shattered until my folks pulled away.
There was no sneaky master plan. Only a quick dinner alone and plans to spend the next day with family.
Saturday ended up being ok. I dragged my feet all morning and made sure my husband knew I was not excited about hanging out with his family on our anniversary. But after I got over my angst it ended up being a fun afternoon and night.
I’m really the only one to blame for my exceptionally high expectations, and my husband really does deserve a whole-hearted pardon for this anniversary. The poor guy has been dealing with one-armed life, a sore shoulder, a messy, chaotic house, and an angsty wife along with the normal stresses of work and his church calling. We’ve both been beat to the ground this summer and it’s not even July yet.
But hey. As my post-teen angst keeps telling me, life isn’t fair. And there’s always next year.