I will be patient.

Tonight, when they were all finally asleep, I went in to check on them, and I stayed for a minute or two, observing how sweet they all are when they are asleep, their steady breathing, their smooth skin, their strangely contorted, uncomfortable-looking bodies curled up in their little beds. It was one of those days today. I needed, so desperately, the reminder that they are in fact, more or less, sweet little boys.

I am not a patient person. Not even close. And this time of year, what precious little patience God gave me is depleted rapidly. You see, my husband's career choice subjects me semi-annually, to single parenthood. 

My job description (that of Farmwife USA) further dictates that I (taking turns, in cooperation and coordination with my farmwife colleagues) faithfully pack food to the crew, lest a tractor have a chance to cool off during the peak farming seasons. This requires organization on a military scale, it seems, to arrive at lunch-ish time with a hot, home-cooked meal and a 2 gallon jug of cold iced-tea. And a backseat full of 3 little farmboys. Truthfully, the boys and I are happy to get out and see our farmers, so really we don't mind. That much. Ok, they (they boys) actually live for this daily outing. It's a huge pain in the ass significant amount of work for the farmwife.  

Today, I cheated. For the bargain price of $42, I scored four cheeseburgers with fries and two orders of chicken strips from the local cafe. I still brought the 2 gallon jug of tea. Plus capri sun and pureed peas for the aforementioned farmboys.

Tomorrow is John's last day of preschool. He is sweet and compassionate. He is stubborn and whiny. He's tall, with fair skin, dark brown eyes, and long eyelashes. He told me today, "I'm going to be a farmer when I grow up. It's been on my agenda for quite some time."

Tomorrow Patrick will still be three. He's goofy, cuddly, and sensitive. His temper has a hair trigger and he's prone to the most unbelievable rage spirals. He's tall, with fair skin, dark brown eyes, and long eyelashes. It was a chilly day for May today. He was outside this afternoon, wearing gum boots and NO pants. And he had his shirt tucked into his underwear.

Tomorrow Theodore will wake me up at the crack of dawn. He's mild-mannered and enamored with his older brothers. He's obsessed with cheerios and eating in general. He's skinny, with fair skin, eyes that are not quite brown, and long eyelashes. He didn't really say much today. He probably won't say much tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I will be patient. I will be patient. I will be patient. I will be patient. I will be patient. I will be patient. I will be patient. I will be patient...

(And, yes, I typed that over and over, rather than Ctrl+C and Ctrl+V...I thought it might do me more good that way.)

Six Years and Two Kids Later...

Today, six years ago, Matt & I celebrated the Sacrament of Matrimony with those of you who loved us enough to brave the sub-zero temperatures to join us. I wore satin pajama bottoms under my wedding dress. It was cold. I was much more comfortable kneeling in front of the altar during the ceremony than standing because the chill of the marble floor penetrated my ballet slippers and radiated right up to my knees. It was cold. At least two, and maybe all three of my bridesmaids wore long underwear. It was cold. We worried we would have to walk home after the reception for fear Matt’s diesel pickup would fail to start. (it did start) It was cold. The furnace ran all night long in our newlywed nest. It was cold.

You’re thinking, “Duh, it was January, of course it was cold. What did you think the weather would be like?” Short answer, “Cold, but not that cold.” The reason we chose January is obvious, at least if you’re a farmer. Our marriage (after over four years of dating) was contingent on me choosing a date that was not during planting or harvest season. Tax season ruled out February and March. So, January it was. I might add that Matt had only finished harvest that year about a week before we were married.

It was the season of marriage for the Clark family: Mary Ann & Greg in October, Matt & Alex on New Year’s Eve, and finally our turn January 15, 2005. Seven-thirty on a clear, crisp evening, candlelight, red roses, Canon in D, the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians, a wintry white organza gown for me, and secondhand dark red satin dresses for my bridesmaids. The picture in my mind’s eye is beautiful, and I hope that’s really how it was.

I love my husband. We have a good marriage, both in my opinion and as the world defines a good marriage. But here is a news flash: marriage is hard. Our vows offer a clue in advance that marriage is hard. Why else would they include “in sickness and health, for richer or for poorer”?

If we had a proverbial crystal ball, would we make decisions differently? Of course we would! We don’t know what life has in store for us, and it’s better that way. You know the song “The Dance.” It goes “I could have missed the pain, but I’da had to miss the dance.” It’s a cliché for sure, and clichés irritate me. But clichés are generally true. That’s why they’re clichés. They get repeated over and over because they’re true and that’s how they get to be clichés.

So, life is hard. Things don’t go your way. People get sick. They get better or sometimes they die. Your job goes well. Your job is crappy. You want to be your own boss. You wish you had a boss so you didn’t have so much responsibility.

The good news for Matt and me and all others God has joined is this: He gives us daily grace through the Sacrament of Marriage. Grace to deal with small pet peeves and major life crises. I suppose our marriage could survive without the help of this grace. But could it thrive and prosper? I don’t think so.

Love bears all things, bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.—I Corinthians 13:7-8

Thank you, God. I give you thanks in joy and suffering. Amen.

Happy Anniversary, Matt. Six years and two kids later, I still love you.

**We’re on a date right now. Please don’t come and steal stuff from our house. It’s locked up tight, and anything good we had, the boys have destroyed. It’s not worth the effort, plus you’d leave tracks in the snow. And we have an army of attack cats. On second thought, you can steal a cat. Or two. Just not Lucky or Monk.