Happy Anniversary to Us!

Having lunch today with my daughter I mentioned that her Dad and I are coming up on our 15th Wedding Anniversary. She became quiet for a moment and asked, “Ummm…am I supposed to get you something?”
“No.” I told her. “But maybe when you’re an adult you can send us a card or something.”
“Good,” she responded with relief, “because I don’t have anything planned.”
“Join the club,” I wanted to say. “I don’t have a plan yet either.”
This year, I’m at a complete loss over what to do for our anniversary. 15 years seems like it should be a big deal, but for the life of me, I can’t come up with a good idea.
Big J and I agreed we can’t escape on a romantic getaway because we both have travel plans (separately) for the following weekend. I’m going to a High School reunion, and Big J has his annual kayak trip with the guys. We could go out to dinner, but we do that often enough that it wouldn’t really be a big deal. Neither of us feels like we “need” anything, so even a present seems like overkill. Sure, he’ll probably get me some flowers, but what do I get him? What is the male equivalent of receiving flowers? (And don’t say candy because he doesn’t eat much sugar.)
I don’t mean to be blasé about our anniversary but I keep coming up empty handed. When I stand in front of the rack of cards at the pharmacy, none of them really capture the essence of our marriage, and the funny cards (maybe it’s just me) have a bit of a negative undertone. Yes, I will eventually pick out a card, or write a nice one. But, is that it? A card?
So, as of now, I’m leaning toward a quiet evening at home with a nice dinner and a good bottle of wine. Am I totally boring and uncreative? Is this a reflection on my marriage, or on my level of effort in this relationship?
I guess I’ll take the positive view and believe that all I really need to celebrate my 15th Wedding Anniversary is my husband. After 15 years, maybe the “gift” we give each other is just the comfort and ease of our relationship, and an acknowlegement…Happy Anniversary to Us!

A Poll: How long were you together before you were married? We were together for 4 years and I say that’s a long time. Big J says 3 years is average. What about you?

Mount Laundry

In the quiet evening hours, I often find myself faced with a mountain of laundry looming on the sofa in my living room. White-sock-topped peaks flow into dark ravines of twisted pant legs and rush by smooth ledges of cotton sweat shirts. The mountain intimidates by sheer size, color and intricacy. I would prefer to turn my back on this mangled mass of fabric, to ignore its insistent call. Yet, I am an experienced laundry sherpa. Like the wise, weather-worn climbers of Mount Everest, I have seen how laundry mountains can turn ugly, even unruly. Even a small storm (in the shape of a child or a dog) can topple the clean-clothes mountain, creating an avalanche that traps a stray socks or favorite t-shirts behind a sofa cushion for months. The mountain needs to be attacked and dismantled, I decide, with the conviction of a demolition engineer. I vow to create order out of chaos.
Surveying the terrain of my family’s laundry landscape, I begin to focus on each piece of clothing, yanking it free. Socks first. I match them when I can, but really just make a mini-pile, a mere foothill to my mountain. There are eight feet in my family, including mine. My daughter has the littlest feet and the prettiest socks, I note, as I matched a white ruffled pair. I pull her favorite dress out of the pile and smooth my hands over the soft cotton flowers. It used to be down to her ankles; she now wears it above her knees, constantly tugging at the snug arm seams. “I want to have this dress forever,” she told me. And there she is, indelibly etched into my memory, wearing this dress. Sinking my face into the fabric, I inhale her little girl smell, fresh as a mountain stream.
I am not, on the other hand, tempted to bury my face into my son’s grungy jeans. Yes, they’re clean...but are they ever really clean? I take a look at the knees, the knees that hit the ground first playing football in the back yard, the knees that have sunk inches into the mud while digging post-rainstorm worms, the knees that have scraped the bark off his favorite climbing tree. I soaked these knees for two days in stain-fighting detergent, but my efforts were in vain. The stringy grass stains still expand outward, looking like miniature trail maps of unexplored denim territory.
My husband’s clothes are a mixture of work and play. Gnarly, wrinkled khakis and button down shirts wage age-old battles with layers of sweat pants and t-shirts -- volcanic rock versus sedimentary rock on my mountain. Some of his faded tie-died t-shirts are even older than our ten-year marriage. I appreciate their soft, comfortable durability.
In my mound, I have a plethora of work-out clothes -- well-worn tank-tops, frayed leggings and shorts. This is good because it means I’ve been exercising. Like my body itself, some of my clothes have lost their shape and elasticity; they are a more relaxed version, I decide, of the lively athletic clothes they used to be.
As each person’s stack of clothes reaches higher and higher, I gain perspective on my family. While my husband works on the computer in the next room, and the kids comfortably snuggle in fresh flannel sheets, I fold and sort -- mentally checking-in on each of them. I’m thankful we are all healthy, active, relatively clean and growing in our own ways.
Folding the over-sized night shirt my daughter sleeps in, I glimpse into the future to see more laundry, bigger laundry, a Mount Olympus of laundry. I visualize the laundry mountain reaching the living room ceiling and crushing the old sofa below. It’s growing too quickly, bursting sharp precipices of future laundry -- sports laundry, dating laundry, an avalanche of college laundry. Dizzy and disoriented, I gasp, trying to take in the thin air at the top of my laundry mountain.
Desperately, I grab the last piece, a twisted sheet featuring a rumpled and faded picture of Cinderella. I stand and fold the sheet with crisp snaps that return me to the reality of my living room . All around me, I suddenly see the riches of my laundry mining. I’ve created a mini-mountain chain, an organized and connected version of that intimidating, chaotic alps. Each person in the family is represented by his or her neat, clean, fresh-smelling clothes. In a small way, I’ve ensured the well-being of my family, at least for the night. My consolation is that I will always defeat the laundry mountain, making order out of chaos, taking care of my family. In my mind, at least, I will always watch them and love them from right here, folding laundry in my living room. (Note: I wrote this a few years ago and not much has changed, except the clothes have gotten bigger!)