Do you know that moment when your everyday life suddenly amazes you? You’re going around your routine, just like always, thinking about your gas tank being low and wishing you’d taken something out of the freezer the night before, because it looks like it’s either grilled cheese or take-out for dinner (again). And then suddenly, you look up and – where you are is spectacular. This happens a lot to me when I’m driving. First, because I should apparently pay more attention to the road and less to my internal monologue, and second, because we live in view of the Rocky Mountains and there are just certain times when you look up and think…. Oh. Right. I’m incredibly lucky.
Then there’s the German shepherd that rides the caretaker golf cart at the golf course I pass every morning. He looks like the most contented dog that every lived and never fails to make me smile. Bright flowers at the side of a worn path, the smell of summer barbeque on a balmy evening… These are the stop and take notice moments that slow us down a little. We become aware that the everyday parts of our lives are the best parts. And there’s another one that fits this bill for me, another moment when I suddenly have that heart tilting, hyper-focus clarity after the rush and hustle of every day. And that’s when – all of a sudden, despite sharing the same routine and house – I see my husband. He’s listening to a play-by-play summarization of Girl Meets World, or he’s sitting at the computer, glasses on, paying bills, or still, after so many years, he’s wrapping an arm around me as we figure out whether it’s grilled cheese or take-out. And I see him, not just as the other end of the carpool loop, and the other person in this house who knows how to load the dishwasher, but see him. Mountain view, single butterfly, first spring greens see.
I don’t mean to suddenly turn this into a syrupy Hallmark moment – and for my money, Folgers totally takes the cake on schmaltzy, holiday tear-jerkers. But, on this day when he first arrived on this blue and green planet, it seems well-timed for a little reflection.
My husband and I couldn’t be more different. We don’t like the same music, or the same movies. I don’t even really like movies very much. Well, that’s not true. I have to be cajoled into watching them, at which point I usually remember I do like movies, but I’m like Dory in Finding Nemo in this: this knowledge is lost as soon as it’s gained. We have some common ground – who doesn’t like a little classic rock from time to time – but it’s unlikely you’ll find us at a concert together. But when we do find some downtime we both enjoy, like settling in with Jon Stewart (curse you and your inability to do the same thing for 20 years, Jon Stewart!), or now Last Week Tonight with John Oliver, I think it means a little more. We’re swimming in intersecting loops on the same path, not unlike an infinity symbol, I’d like to think, and so the times when we cross are better for it. 
For all our differences, we balance each other out. While I am Googling symptoms of mad cow disease and chronic fatigue syndrome, he is supergluing that awful looking cut he got on a dishwasher at work, and going out to mow the yard. The original believer in bringing the universe to your doorstep, he always assumes there will be a parking spot in the front while I profess to love incidental exercise. Our children are more independent because they have a father who believes that it’s their due to spread their wings, and they know how to work hard because he believes they can trench a sprinkler system, and certainly they can wash baseboards and tote landscape rock. We had different childhood experiences, and so we bring different perspectives to the parenting equation. I was a straight arrow. He was not. He will know what these children are thinking of thinking about before they do, whereas I’ll assume they’re in their rooms reading.
And so, while we’d never have to worry about sorting out our CD collection – that used to be a thing! Not that long ago! – in the ways that are deeper than pop culture references, I’ve found my match. We have the same world view, the same basic convictions. We want to impress upon our children that how you treat people represents you, and how you treat yourself defines you. It doesn’t matter how many common books we’ve read, or how many common longitude and latitudes we’ve seen, as long as we think the world of each other.
Marlowe and Bon Jovi both spoke of love as a bed of roses. And I think it couldn’t be more accurate, really. But where both of the aforementioned wordsmiths meant it as a peaceful respite, it’s not really so much a heap of silky petals as it is the petals and the scents and the layers and the thorns. Roses can be hothouse beauties, or they can be wild and hardy, resilient and beautiful even with their occasional sharp edges. After 12 years together, we’ve had petals, we’ve had thorns, and more than that, we have layers. I used to think that the term “partner” was the salutatorian to “spouse,” the term consigned to those who were either denied marriage, or just weren’t sure enough about it to make the leap. Today, I realize how foolish that was. A spouse, while incredibly meaningful, is created by a piece of paper. A partner is forged by a common goal. A partner is the person to whom you can always turn, no matter what. The real life trust fall – lost jobs, medical tragedies and crises of faith. It’s the person who never gives up on you, even when you have. The lucky can call their spouse partner, and I am the luckiest.
Happy birthday to my husband, my partner. You’re older than me again for the next 11 months. Let me know what the view is like from way up there on the number line.
