Happy Birthday

Last Friday night, as I mentioned, I had a date with my husband, to celebrate his 35th birthday. First we went to a new hip spot for a drink, then on to a fancy French restaurant for dinner, which has received rave reviews, despite being extremely expensive . I expected the bill to be high, but I figured it might be the last fancy dinner we have for awhile if we do the remodel, so we might as well go out in style.

Here's where I say: We went. And had a fabulous time. We talked all night, and laughed, and gazed adoringly into each other's eyes. We chewed our precious, delicate morsels of French cuisine and drank our superior French wine and thought of nothing but love and ripping the clothes off each other as soon as we got back to the car.

Except, that's not what happened. Oh, the bill was high. The food was French, and quite good, actually. The service was impeccable and not a bit snotty, as you might expect. But the laughing, the adoring gazes, the fire of the loins--all these things were overshadowed by the incredibly frustrating argument that we got into over--what else?--my brother-in-law, Brad.

I will not go into the particulars here, as it might bore you to tears if you weren't already crying, and furthermore, there is no way to resolve the argument as it just IS WHAT IT IS. I must accept that, and I am having difficulty doing so, and there, I told you the particulars one millisecond after I told you I wouldn't.

Anyway. This is not a post about my fucking brother-in-law. There have been far too many of those on these pages, and I think I should declare the interwebs Brad-free, just to save the rest of you from my agony. Nothing more about him, ever. EVER.

After our argument (although, if truth be told it was much more of a FIGHT than a simple argument), we came home and retreated to the respective corners of our queen size bed. Saturday was spent mostly avoiding the issue, not angrily, but just resignedly. By Saturday evening we could watch the Carolina game together with joy in our hearts, although nothing had (or ever will be) resolved.

Aside: I don't believe in that old rule which says you should never go to bed angry. Sometimes I am so angry that nothing is going to dissuade me from my path, and, especially if there is alcohol involved, it works much better for me to sleep on it. Then I can wake up with a clear head (relatively speaking, of course) and perhaps see things from another point of view. Or at least there is that potential the next day, when often there isn't, the night before.

On Sunday morning, we woke up, packed up the kids and headed down to the beach club, stopping at the grocery store on the way. Once there, I made everybody breakfast, and then we played in the sand for awhile, even venturing down to the ocean for little bit. We wore the kids out, fed them lunch, took them home for naps, and I ran out to the store again. Made Lance a cake, cooked a nice risotto with some grilled fresh salmon. It was a really nice, lazy, easy day, with none of the leftover angst we'd had on Saturday.

I love my husband. I love him more than I express on these pages, more than I am capable of expressing. I hate more than anything that we allowed Brad to interfere with what should have been a celebratory birthday evening.

But you know what? In the end, it doesn't matter. Yes, the fight about Brad disrupted our dinner. We went to bed dissatisfied with each other (in more ways than one); we spent the next day licking our wounds in private, unable to communicate happily with each other; but soon enough we emerged, unscathed.

And isn't that something? Just having that knowledge, a small nugget of goodness that I can hide away in my pocket, that I can store somewhere next to my soul: even Brad's craziness can't derail us. He can disrupt us--as can many other people/things/events--but he can't ruin us. We are so much stronger than that.

I don't say it enough, and I don't even think it enough, consciously. There is no one I would rather spend my minutes with. No one I would rather parent my children with. No one I would rather jump in the boat with. Here is a man I found on the whim of a blind date, 10 years and 1 month ago, a man who loves me completely, who argues with me passionately, and who forgives me easily. Serendipity; luck; karma--call it what you will. Who am I to deserve this man?

Daily, I am blown back off my feet by the incredible power of my love for my children. Daily, I gaze at them in wonder and awe, and feel humbled by just the fact of them. These perfect, unbelievable beings, beings whose very existence cause the earth to turn on its axis. This doesn't happen as often with Lance. But it should.

It should.