Years ago, when we were younger and in puppy-love, I started writing my husband daily notes. Oh yes, they were love notes of the most sickening sweet variety, full of phrases beginning “Your love is like…” and punctuated with hearts. As I grew older, and as we became “old hands” at the dating game, I stopped.
Much to my surprise, I was chastised by him. “Where was my note this morning?” he asked. “You mean, you care?” I replied, without considering that this was (a) smart alec sounding (and therefore disrespectful) and (b) redundant. Yes, he cared what I had to say, and much to my delight, he continues to care. Since the Ulna Incident (aka breaking my arm), I haven’t been so good at a lot of my daily chores and household upkeep. I just haven’t had the energy. And as I find myself facing exhaustion I have faced only one other time in my life (when I was pregnant), I am also finding myself prioritizing in a whole different way.
Sink clean? Well, not exactly. I think Flylady would grant me dispensation. If there are clean coffee cups and enough spoons, I’m calling my dish cleaning escapades successful.
Laundry done? Well, it depends what you mean by “done.” I’m putting a load a day through the washer and dryer (in part because it helps keep the kitchen pipes from freezing), but I’m not so good about getting them folded, and once folded, put away.
House clean? Well, let’s not even touch this one. I wasn’t good about this before, but now…well, if I say too much more you might call the authorities!
Daily writing? Well, I’m going to start getting back on schedule…next week.
Daily reading? Well, I’m trying. I haven’t tried toothpicks in my eyes to prop them open…
But there is one thing I resolve to do better this month, and that is writing Hubby’s daily note. He savors it, and he will read whatever I write. I wonder sometimes if he reads them more than once, and I know he would save every single one, if I let him. (Pitch-and-Purge urges strike me, though, and I find his stash and out they go with the recycling, unless he’s put them in the Safe Box.) He’s my number one fan, and as such, he deserves his own version of my writing every day. It is my small act of service to him, my way of clueing him in on what’s going on in the vast wasteland of my mind, and sometimes, the only way I get to really talk to him through the day. It’s how I bring up the difficult topics, and how I lay the hints about my dreams and hopes for the future. I’ve advised friends to try it, because it might be the best thing I do in our marriage. (But then, I like to write.)
This month, along with the big box of Reese’s hearts, I will give my husband the gift of my time, a few minutes every morning, so that as he trundles off to a job that makes him groan, he has a piece of my heart with him, in the tangible form of a folded-up note.