Melissa Anne Cohen

(In no particular order)

– He always stops if there’s a car on the side of the road… flat tire needs to be changed, car accident, people pulling over for a rest, doesn’t matter, he stops to make sure that everyone is okay. Even when we’re running late, and have a carful of children, and I’d much rather just keep going, he stops to make sure everyone is okay.

– He thinks football is a panacea. Doesn’t matter what the problem is, if he could just get the game on, he’s sure that it would make everything all better. This innocent faith is at times infuriating, but mostly, I’m impressed at the sincerity and purity of his love for the game.

– He cleans the bathroom.

– He’s really tall – not that this is something he has any control over, but I really like it 🙂

– He calls me his beautiful wife. All the time. I don’t think he calls me by name all that often, mostly it’s “my beautiful wife.”

– He tells Jessica long, involved stories at bedtime. He’s developed rituals and routines that she’ll remember and hopefully, repeat with her own kids.

– He thinks my hair is prettiest when it’s down, wild and out of control. He tells Jessie that she’s beautiful when her hair is down. He loves us best when we’re most ourselves.

– He wants me to be happy. That’s all, and whatever it takes, that’s his overall goal. If that means giving up his D&D; game so I can go off for the day, or going out in the rain to get me ice cream, he’ll do it. He’ll actually want to do it, because he wants my happiness.

– He’ll sit and play with Sam for as long as Sam wants to play. Throwing the ball, playing ‘run, run, jump’, throwing him up in the air, he’ll do it. He’ll read stories to him, and talk about trucks and guys and whatever else my little two year old wants to discuss, for as long as Sam can handle it.

– He’s unfailingly honest. No matter what. I might not want to hear it, but I know that there’s no game playing, he’s telling me exactly what he means.

– He thinks. He doesn’t know who he’s voting for, and is willing to discuss and debate and analyze with me until we figure it out. He’s always reading something – and is always happy to read books that I recommend to him.

– I can announce that we’re having a thousand people over for the weekend, and he’d be thrilled. I never have to say the phrase “Marc won’t let me.” It’s not something that would ever occur to him.

– He loves and respects and trusts me as much as I do him. He’s on my side before anyone else it. He’s my first call, the one I most want to be with and talk to.

– He lets me fight for him. When we are arguing, and he isn’t saying what I want, he’ll let me talk for him and then say “you said exactly what I mean.” And mean it. Because the end goal is the two of us together and happy, and if I have to explain what I want to hear, he wants me to say it, because that’s how the fight gets resolved quickest and happiest.

– His hands. Just…. his hands. He’s got great hands 🙂

Now I’m hot. And tired. And minus one chair in the living room.

The problem is that my rocking recliner that we got off of freecycle is so battered and beat up and just ugly I wanted to switch it out. I happen to have a lovely chair in my bedroom (yes, I keep extra living room chairs in my living room, got a problem with that?). But once I started shoving stuff around – I don’t know what happened. It suddenly seemed as though we needed something new, a fresh vantage point… and now I had to move everything around, my arms are sore and we don’t have room for the chair after all. Marc is not going to be happy about this – but hey, I’m the one who’s home all the time and looking at it, right?

Not that I didn’t love him before, because of course I did, but he’s TALKING now. We can have conversations and chat, and he’s so fascinating to me. He’s got this amazing sense of humor and he’s so sweet… I remember Jessie at this age, and it’s incredible to me that I lucked out to have not just one, but TWO kids who blow me away with their intelligence and sweetness.

With Jessie, her babyhood was so wonderful, she was such an angel baby for me. I loved it when she was so tiny and sweet and cuddly, and it just grew from there. But Sam was so colicy and fussy and so miserable, I remember thinking that he was bonded closer to the ceiling fan than me – at least he smiled more consistently at it. I think this is my favorite age with him. He’s so relaxed and chipper all the time. Stubborn and insistent and emotional like his sister, but with this level of emotional stability like his dad 🙂

Why is it that when Marc’s not here (like tonight) my house is perfectly clean, my dishes not only washed, but put away, coffee made for tomorrow, both children clean, read to, and asleep by eight o’clock? When Marc is here, in theory, with two adults, it should be a million times easier to run my little household. And I know that I’m incredibly lucky to have such an amazing husband and father to my children – but why, when he’s here, are the kids running around fully dressed at nine with toys scattered around the living room? I speculate that perhaps it’s because when he comes home, the kids get an adrenaline rush and are harder to settle, but fear it might be that I expect him to be another me, and then think that I only have to do half of my job. I think that’s really what it is – I have this inflated expectation that when he’s here, he should be able to be fully on-board with what I want to get done (not that it’s selfish stuff, I want to get the house picked up and kids in bed at a reasonable hour). But the way it works out, when Marc is here, usually we squabble because I’m constantly expecting him to be right there, changing diapers and cleaning up toys, and he’s trying to relax and chill out. Everything is tougher. Unless I pretend that he isn’t here, which works out better – because then when he does step up and assist (and to be fair, unless he’s trapped in the computer game and can’t think beyond it, he always does), it’s just a bonus.

Either way, he’s not here tonight and I’m lonely and sad without him. As is my Jessica, she wants Daddy to wake her up when he gets home and take her to the bathroom and say shema with her. I’m probably spelling it wrong, but she really enjoys it and since I don’t know the words, it’s a Daddy/Jessie thing.

Jessie’s staying dry thru the night. To be perfectly honest, she’s still wetting the bed, but trying to stay dry – no more pull-ups at night. She really wants to – and I’m optimistic that it’ll work. Plus she wants to do it – which is, in my extensive experience of potty training the one child – is the key. Trying to do it when you’re the only one who wants to is monumentally pointless.

Sam went down to bed really early tonight, which was so lovely. Not only because he’ll get a good night’s sleep, but because I got to put my little girl to bed like I used to – when it was just the two of us. I read to her in her bed, switched off the light, we talked a little bit, and then I sang her to sleep with her special lullaby. I have one for each kid, Jessie’s is sung to the tune of Mockingbird, but since I couldn’t ever remember the words, I made some up “Mama’s going to buy you a great big pig. If that piggie gets too fat, Mama’s going to buy you a little cat…” Sam’s is sung to the tune of My Little Sunshine – and the best part is that one has a million little versions. His favorite is “You are my Sammy, my baby Sammy…”

Okay, so I kept my girl home from camp today. All was going well, I got her dressed and off to school fine, brought her inside, and she was uncharacteristically clingy. Like, wouldn’t get off my leg, clingy. But I presevered, gave her a kiss and put away her back pack and told her I’d come and get her in a few hours. I felt… not right about it, though. So I spied on her for a bit thru the window, like a stalker. She didn’t know I was there, and I promised myself that I’d stay just until I knew that she was okay. She was standing all alone over by the window, looking lost and sad. Miss Beth came over and tried to talk to her for a bit, but she got distracted and poor Jess was still just standing up against the window, not talking to anyone.

I argued with myself, do I make her stay? We paid for her to attend, I want her to learn to be independent and brave and confident, she’s a big girl now, going off to kindergarten, I can’t let her stay home because she’s too shy… but the other side of the argument was that I suspect she’s getting sick, due to a phenominal amount of crying yesterday, it’s not kindergarten yet, it’s just summer camp and she’s only five… The amount of time when I’d be able to rescue her and take her home with me is dwindling – once she starts school, it won’t be an option, really, and the time when she rather be anywhere other than with her mother is fast approaching – the past five and half years went by fast enough for me to know that the next ten will fly by… twenty years from now, am I going to be happy that I left my little girl or that I let her come home with me?

The twenty years thing decided me – I just had a yucky feeling about leaving her there, and knew I’d regret it. So I poked my head in the door, and said her name, and she looked up at me with those big, big brown eyes filled up with tears, and I brought her home with me.

Actually found myself thinking this earlier.

I’m bored. I’m never bored. Sometimes bored, but never lonely. But I don’t have Harrison any more during the day, hopefully a temporary situation, and quite honestly, Sam is getting to be a lot bigger and more independent. By himself, and a lot of the time, he’s the only one I have here, he’s charming and funny and sweet, but not all that demanding. I’ve got time on my hands. And I don’t know quite what to do with it all.

So I’m sitting on the comfy chair, nursing my mostly sleeping toddler when Jessie and her buddy Glennys come flying out of the bedroom. There’s a bug in there, and they had to evacuate. So I say, go kill it. They both explain that they aren’t going to do it, and I take a deep breath and say “your two year old brother can kill a bug, and you want to tell me that you two are such wimpy, wussy girls that you can’t even kill a bug?” (completely ignoring the fact that I make Marc kill the bugs all the time – classic do as I say, not as a do moment). But anyway, I’m giving them a little feminist lecture – and Sam sits up, still groggy and half asleep, all sweaty and tired, and toddles off, gets himself a shoe and handles the situation.

Are gender roles really that ingrained? Or it is my fault? Is it because Marc kills all of my bugs? Will I have to start killing my own to make sure that my daughter can handle herself? And what about my boy? He’s just two, already cast in the role of hero and savior.