Love: Soft As An Easy Chair
Dad Gone Mad | February 14When I was in elementary school, Valentine’s Day meant taping a brown paper bag to the side of your desk and having all of your little classmates drop store-bought notes into it. Everything on the notes was pre-printed except the recipient’s name and, in the case of snotty-nosed Millicent Adler, the crusty booger right in the middle of the D in “Danny.” But we didn’t care. At the end of the day, we proudly trotted home with our brown bags and showed them to our mommies, who led us to believe that based on the unfathomable volume of Snoopy- and Fat-Albert-themed Valentines inside, we were absolutely adored by all of our classmates.
I now believe that this whole charade is the birthplace of spam.
The true depiction of love became clear to me when I married Hot Wife, a woman who has returned every gift I’ve ever bought for her (which is either a reflection of my own piss-poor taste or her staunch refusal to accept any item that doesn’t include fold-down leather seats, a slobbery tongue-kiss from Jake Gyllenhaal, or a row of two-carat baguettes).
Love, as it turns out, means sacrifice.
It means sacrificing your own warmth to let your wife put her ice-cold feet on you at night.
It means sacrificing any kind of sexual spontaneity because before your wife can even think about bumping uglies with you, she has to brush, floss, exfoliate, moisturize, pee, pop a zit, check her e-mail, check to see if the TiVo is set to record Grey’s Anatomy, and call her friend for the ninth time tonight just to see whose turn it is to drive carpool in the morning.
It means sacrificing comfort and environmental control because the kids want to watch Dora. If you want to watch the hockey game, you will do so in the garage, sitting in the open side-door of the minivan, eating stale Cheerios out of the car seats.
It means sacrificing what you consider to be the lowest possible acceptable level of household decorum because sometimes your son forgets to flush after he poops, so you recondition yourself to breathe through your mouth when you go into the bathroom and have finally trained yourself not to vomit when you see another person’s excrement. Instead you are happy that this boy, whom you love, appears to be eating PLENTY of roughage.
Remember that cheesy old song about love being soft as an easy chair and fresh as the morning air? I’m here to confirm for you that those sentiments, while nice, are total bullshit most of the time. Love is often hard and stale and sometimes it has a big, crusty booger on it.
I so want to watch hockey with you! I have to watch Dora!
Backpack backpack…
So if you know this about me, why do you buy me anything but the trinkets mentioned in parenthesis? A massage is always good too.
you are a GIVER! Give, give, give.
That hotwife of yours is one lucky chick. And you are one lucky dad.
Good lord, do I now have to visit TWO places to read your stuff??? Well, I suppose if you keep making me laugh, then the extra click will have been worth it.
You know, there is an entire blog out there titled “Give me the booger.” It’s one of those things I do find myself saying surprisingly often as a parent and had you asked me before if I could see myself booger-diving in someone else’s nose, I’d have thought you were nutty as a loon.
Love is Patients and Forgiveness. Love is learning to let her have the last frigging word if it kills you. Love is “Yes Dear”
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