The End is Near! Or Maybe It's Just My Beginning?

Tomorrow night I officially take the stage, a real stage, for the first time in 30 years. And no, that's not an exaggeration. I haven't been in a theater production since high school when I performed in Leader of the Pack my senior year. I wore a black leather jacket in that role. In Marisol, I play “Woman with Furs” and I wear an amazing coat. I obviously have a gift for attracting roles with good outerwear.

Rehearsals for Marisol began in early October and the time has flown by. Along with the passage of time, I'm happy to say that my depression has eased dramatically (pun intended). I guess being part of something bigger than yourself and staying busy keeps sadness at bay. It doesn't hurt that I'm surrounded by a supportive family (now I have two!)—with me in the solo role of middle age woman. I've enjoyed the hugs (thank you, Rachel), loads of laughter (thank you, Nick and Leo) and ridiculous amounts of talent (thank you, all). Whatever it is, I've consistently looked forward to rehearsals, and there's little else I feel that way about these days.

The joy I've experienced throughout this process is all the more remarkable when you consider the size of my role, which amounts to one scene at the top of Act 2. A small part was ideal in the early days of rehearsal when it meant I didn't have to be there every night or stay for the entire time, but come the week before the show, a small part translates into more sitting than I've ever done in my life. Friday evening, the first of our tech rehearsals, I spent no more than 10 minutes on stage in four hours. On Saturday, during an 11-hour rehearsal, my stage time was about 15 minutes. It's no wonder I've gained weight over the past month. It's either all the sitting or the banana chocolate chip, french vanilla chip, or chocolate cheesecake muffins I've been eating regularly for breakfast.

All the sitting aside, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Of course, I can say that now, before the performance, before the nerves attack and I forget all my lines and burst into tears on stage. At least I'm thinking positive. So let's say that barring a catastrophe, I'd love to do this again. Will I do it again? Probably not anytime soon. It's a lot to ask of my family as long as Abby is living at home and needs me for transportation. And I do miss time with family and friends. And speaking of missing things, would you believe Rob is going to Punta Cana for work later this month and I could have gone if it weren't for Marisol? Alas, the show must go on. And while we're speaking of Rob, can I publicly thank him for being so supportive? I know it wasn't easy, but this experience really has brought me considerable joy.

But enough about me and my emotional catharsis, it's time to tell you about this amazing show. First, it's not for everybody. I'd give it a PG-13 rating. If you believe the “F” word warrants an R rating, then it should be rated Triple-R. But “F” bombs aside, Marisol is an amazingly thought-provoking show. It will make you laugh, cry and cringe. It will make you consider the presence of God and guardian angels. It will make you wonder about this world we live in.

Here's the official description:

Brooklyn is a war zone, coffee is extinct, the moon has disappeared, and angels are trading in their wings for machine guns. As a celestial battle against an old and senile God brews in heaven, the rebellion spills over into New York City. Without the protection of her guardian angel, Marisol Perez begins a surreal journey through the chaos of a crumbling world to find her way home. Met by vagrants and vagabonds at every turn, she must salvage what hope remains amidst the rubble of the apocalypse. 

Perhaps one line in the show best sums it up:

“What a time to be alive, huh? On one hand, we're nothing. We're dirt. On the other hand, we're the reason the universe was made.”  

To learn more about Marisol, check out the website.

Performances run from tomorrow through November 20 at Villanova Theatre in Vasey Hall. If you're interested in seeing it you can order tickets at villanovatheatre.org or 610-519-7474.

Empty Nest Symptoms?

Someone once said she appreciated how "real" I am.
I told her I'd prefer to be a little less real.

Last week I had one of my worst emotional breakdowns in 15 years. For anyone who's struggled with depression, you know that these episodes are terrifying. You can't breath, you can't stop crying, and you're paralyzed with the fear that you're never going to get better. Suffice it to say that depression sucks.

I've been in a pretty lousy place for about six months now and I'm starting to wonder if I'm ever going to feel like my old self again. It's not that my old self was anything awesome, but I liked her better. She laughed more easily. She made others laugh. She cried at happy things. She wrote funny blog posts and Vacation Bible School skits.

I'm not entirely sure what prompted last week's meltdown, but my guess is that it had something to do with being lonely. Honestly, loneliness has taken me by complete surprise. I craved alone time for most of the past 15 years, and now that I have it, I'm miserable. I never thought I'd be the mom who falls apart when the kids leave the house. I thought the whole empty nest syndrome was a bit ridiculous and only applied to moms whose entire lives were their kids. But here I am, the mom who paid as little attention to the kids as possible, now hates the thought of them leaving. And it's not like Ian's going to college across the country, for crying out loud (no pun intended), and I still have Abby for a few more years (though she's constantly busy). Woe is me! I've turned into my mom. Time to stock up on those guilt-inducing comments.

What concerns me most about this loneliness thing is that it's not as if I have nothing else to do with my life. I go to the gym (and as an aside, a meltdown post-workout is truly adding insult to injury. I exercise because the freakin' endorphins are supposed to help my mental health. It's totally uncool for them to not hold up their end of the bargain); I make dinner (it's been known to happen when the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars); I play with the dog; I watch two episodes of my new favorite show Jane the Virgin (no more than two, because I want to make them last); I write, read, or pay bills or practice an audition piece for a play I may or may not have the nerve to try out for; I drink wine; and then I have mini panic attacks when I allow my mind to wander for more than a minute.

Most likely I'm overreacting. It's only the calm before the storm. Life will pick back up again and I won't have time to be looney lonely. Soon school will resume and I'll be chauffeuring Abby to and from soccer practices and games.  And did I mention we're taking in an exchange student from France? (His name is Gautier; he's 16. What could go wrong?) And I'm taking a Voice & Movement class at Villanova, returning to the theatre program. I also think I'm going to try out for a play, which would keep me busy six nights a week, at which point I'll have a breakdown because I'm overwhelmed. There's no keeping me happy. Aren't you glad you're not Rob?

Thanks for listening/reading. I know this isn't a particularly uplifting post, but I figured someone out there would be able to relate and might have something to say to make me feel better. Or, I'll make you feel better knowing that you're not half as crazy, lonely, sad, etc. as the girl who writes the Freakin' Angel blog!

Everyone You Meet

A few months ago, my friend Mindy wrote this heartfelt reflection after the tragic loss of 13-year-old Caynam Naib. I asked her permission to post it on my blog, but never got around to it. As I find myself distracted, downhearted and a bit blue these days, I thought it might be a good time to share Mindy's piece. Perhaps you'll be kind if I happen to be that "person in the middle of the aisle."

Everyone You Meet
by Melinda Ann Madore Davis

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about." Wendy Mass, The Candymakers

Who will you “meet” today? I don’t mean in the sit down and exchange names sense. I mean who will you come across as you go about your day? Certainly, you will interact with those who are an everyday part of your life— family, coworkers, perhaps one of those “frequently occurring characters” like the particularly friendly Starbucks clerk, who has made it a point to remember your name. However, every day, each of us shares space with innumerable others, even if only ever so slightly: those ahead of us in line at the sandwich shop, those who are driving the same route as we head to work, those who are in the grocery store at the same time that we are.

This makes me think about Cayman’s mom. Most of us know of her, but we do not know her. Here is a mother who is suffering, who is grieving, and who continues to care for her family. Who does she meet when she is in the grocery store? You may not meet Cayman’s mom, but you've met that person in the middle of the aisle who seems to be in another world, not noticing that you are trying to get by. Now what if, instead of becoming irritated we remembered the above quote? How would we choose to act/react/respond? What if it were Cayman’s mom? Maybe this “someone” is seemingly in another world because they lost their job this week or because they have learned of a devastating diagnosis in their family. What if, no matter what, we chose to approach these “ordinary” situations with a different mindset? What kind of difference could this make to the tone of our world? I see this as a divine opportunity, a chance to extend a gracious attitude toward someone who is technically a “stranger,” but who shares my world, if only for a minute.

Most of us will not found a philanthropic organization. Not all of us will contribute great wealth to a worthwhile cause. We might not be able to travel to a distant place to share our time, resources and skills with others who are in need. But while all of these are important, isn't it encouraging to realize that we don’t have to do big things with money or specialized skills to make an important contribution to our world?
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All of us end up in the grocery store. All of us can choose to be kind, patient, gracious. And, in this way, all of us can make a difference. The next time you are in the grocery store, think about Cayman’s mom. Think about her as “everyone you meet”—“for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”

Who is Cayman’s Mom? Cayman’s mom is Rebecca Malcolm-Naib. Her dear son, Cayman Naib, 13, of Newtown Square, PA tragically died near his home on March 4, 2015.

Has Anyone Seen My Mind? It Seems to Be Missing.

Have you ever wondered if you're losing your mind? I certainly have, and on more than one occasion. Last night being one of them. As I seriously consider the possibilities that this is happening to me, I find myself wondering if people who lose their minds actually realize it, or, does the fact that I'm asking mean that I'm not. And what does it mean to lose ones mind anyway?

On one hand I have real concerns that I'm headed for early onset dementia. Sure, everyone forgets what they walked into a certain room for, and forgotten names of folks you don't see that often is normal, but it's worse than that for me. I will completely blank on the names of people I'm close to. I  can't recall the title of that book, movie, or TV show to save my life (there goes my trivia game show dream). I remember dates and times wrong. My "brain farts" happen so frequently that I'm getting used to the smell.

Then there's the "crazy" side of losing ones mind. While I feel like my depression symptoms are, for the most part, under control, lately I'm wondering if I'm bipolar or just ridiculously moody. It's like my teenage and young adult years all over again. Come to think of it, I should call my college roommates to apologize. Anyway, last night I went from having a grand ole time with friends to walking a mile home at 11 p.m. because I was angry for no particularly good reason. (Though you'd think by now that husbands would know not to ask their wives, "What's your problem?" in that tone of voice. At least when the kids ask why I'm in a bad mood it's an innocent, albeit foolish, mistake.)

So what is my problem exactly? Well, that's the thing. Looking at the big picture, I have no problems. I have a job, a home, my health, my parents' health, my kids' health, a good great husband, and food for the table (when I actually go grocery shopping). But close up, everything is a problem. I have moments (they last no more than an hour, tops) where I try to be adult and not complain about life to my friends (whom I will be lucky to still call "friends" after my increasingly bad behavior), but ultimately I succumb to all the sh*t that's dragging me down:

Missed deadlines
Divorce news
Diagnoses
Family obligations
To do lists
Job searches
Aging
Cancer treatments
Parenting

Some of that has nothing to do with me personally. But it's affecting people I care about and that affects me. I'm well aware that this is the same sh*t that's dragging down nearly everyone I know, but it's just that I feel everything so much more acutely. I recently asked Rob if he thinks everyone experiences the world like I do (albeit without talking/blogging about it), and his immediate answer was "No." No thoughtful consideration required before responding. Isn't he the lucky one to have married me!

You're probably (hopefully) thinking that I'm normal and that this is life. You might say that every mom of a teenager goes through this crap, but I think it'd be so much easier if I didn't jump on the roller coaster with them. I can literally go from happy to bitch in 3.5 seconds. One minute I'll be dreaming of the day when the kids are out of the house and Rob and I can downsize and move somewhere warm and live happily ever after. The next minute I'm seriously doubting that I can stand even one more day together, listening to him pass gas breathe. The poor guy never knows who he's coming home to and a spouse can only be patient for so long. Hence, my walk home last night.

I realize that this post is probably better suited for my personal journal (yes, can you believe there are things I actually keep personal!), but these worries kept me tossing and turning last night and I guess I'm hoping someone will say that they get it, that they've been there, too.

That I'm not losing my mind.

So a Celebrity Died and People Wept

I'll be honest. I've always thought that people who are dumbstruck ("dumb" being the operative word) by celebrities are pretty sad. Is your life so pathetic that you need to keep up with the Kardashians or keep it "real" with the Housewives of Name-that-Place? Even if you are not personally supporting this sickness, there clearly are too many Americans who are fascinated with the lives of the rich and famous. How else would we end up with these ridiculous people on our TV and movie screens?

Need further proof that we are way too interested in the world of celebrities? People is the top selling magazine in this country. There are 46.6 million so-called adults who choose People as a source of reading material. That subscription costs over $100 a year. I know, because I've priced it. I'll admit that I enjoy an occasional issue, but I only look at it for the pictures. I swear.

Then there are those who go well beyond checking out Tinseltown's awards ceremony gowns. Some will search for celebrity homes, stalk them for photos and autographs, and even visit their grave sites. Our reaction to the death of celebrities is especially disconcerting to me. I have never understood the wailing, weeping and homage paid at the death of someone famous. Folks leaving flowers, candles, stuffed animals and photos at meaningful sites? I don't get it. Unless you knew John Lennon, Whitney Houston, Heath Ledger, River Phoenix or Marilyn Monroe personally, why would you react this way? There are reports of fans committing suicide when Michael Jackson died. Why do you mourn those whom you have never loved and in most cases, never met? You may have been touched by their performances, but is that enough to justify the tears? I see the irony in that statement -- me suggesting that tears need to be justified.

Part of the reason I am turned off by our reaction to the deaths of famous people is that it seems to speak volumes about what matters to us. We cry over lost lives in Hollywood and read every tribute and bit of gossip about those lost souls, but we're quick to turn the page or change the channel when we see photos and hear the stories of hundreds and thousands who are dying from disease and violence in countries we can't find on a map.

But then Robin Williams died.

I did not know him personally, but I still cried when I heard the news. And the more I read about his death, the more tears I shed. I cried because he was still in his prime and had much more to give. I cried because he made me laugh and it hurts to lose someone who gives us the gift of laughter. But perhaps the main reason I cried is because, as a friend of mine said, if Robin Williams couldn't fight the demons of depression, even with every resource at his disposal, what chance do the rest of us have?

If anything good can come from the loss of one of the world's comic geniuses, let it be that the conversation about mental illness continues and that in our darkest moments we recall this line from the Walt Whitman poem "O Me! O Life!" spoken by Robin Williams in one of his most extraordinary movies, The Dead Poet's Society:

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;  

That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

I Get So Emotional, Baby

By now my proclivity for tears has become a bit of a joke. My son and one of my Angel friends have called me out for crying "because the sun came up today." I roll with it. At least they're giving me the attention I so deserve desperately crave.

Just your typical day for "feelers" like me!

If you want to label me a bit more accurately, I'm not strictly a crier. I think a better word might be "feeler." I experience a range of emotions in a really deep way. It's as if all the nerves that trigger emotions lie too close to the surface. As a result, tears and laughter come in equally easy measure. The same movie might elicit both, and if you're with me, you may be embarrassed by how freely I share them. If the reaction of strangers is of concern to you, I'll understand if you want to sit a few rows behind me. I should also warn you that I can get physical when frightened. Rob still has the scars of childbirth. Let's just say I held on to his hand really tightly.

In addition to those experiences that evoke a physical reaction, I also can feel overwhelming emotion in life's everyday moments. The daily news or a walk down the street can trigger heartache. The beauty of nature can hit me like a ton of bricks. Even my rare bouts with being content or peaceful are acute, nearly palpable.

Sometimes I think I possess some strange genetic disposition that causes me to observe and absorb more from the world than most people. Except I guess it's not genetic, because I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in my family built this way. My sister tries to avoid unpleasant feelings at all cost, and Abby seems immune to emotional distress. She may be the only person in America who didn't cry at The Fault in Our Stars, though she did confess that her eyes welled up a couple of times. I'm not going to see that movie, at least not in the theaters. Don't want to drown out the audio with my sobbing.

Given my tendency toward free-flowing tears or raucous laughter, one might think that I'd avoid situations that are likely to result in a total breakdown or complete hysteria. But here's the thing: I kind of like the depth of emotions that I experience. While I often will pass on books or movies that I know will cause me distress, when I stumble upon something that touches me, I embrace it rather than fight it. I don't see my emotions as a curse, but rather as a blessing. What a wonderful gift to be so alive and in touch with the world around me!

Having said all that, I should add that the level of emotion of which I speak, even when it's sadness, should not be confused with clinical depression, with which I also have plenty of experience. Perhaps those of us who struggle with this disease also tend to feel things more deeply than others, but they are not one in the same. Depression is a weight that drags you down, making your heart feel heavy regardless of the book you're reading, the movie you're watching or the evening news. In fact, one of the most frustrating things about it is how it settles in regardless of the reality of our lives. When you're suffering with depression, there's nothing worse than hearing "you have nothing to be unhappy about." Be assured that I know my life is nearly perfect, and I already feel badly about feeling bad for no logical reason.

Personally, I'm in a pretty good place these days. I'm lucky to have found a combination of things that work for me, including medication, exercise, wine and quiet time. And I'm happy to say that the antidepressants I take allow me to feel those range of emotions that I've described. If you're on meds that leave you feeling nothing--no highs or lows--I urge you to see your doctor, or a different doctor. There are ways to make the pain go away without shutting down all the feelings--good and bad--that make life worth living.

Hop On! We're Taking a Tour of Changeland

The Funkapotomus has been away on an extended vacation. I always feel better when he heads out of town (obviously). Unfortunately, the big guy's back and settled in quite nicely, occasionally hugging me so tightly I can barely breath or think.

Whenever the Funkapotomus returns I spend a good deal of time trying to figure out exactly why he's here. Rainy day? Wintertime? Fight with Rob, or the kids, or my parents, or my boss or a friend? My monthly hormonal imbalances? If I answer "no" to all of the above I begin my nearly expert process of self-diagnosis. It's better than self-medicating and considerably less expensive than seeing a professional.

I have come to the conclusion that the Funkapotomus came home at this particular time because he's relishing the significant amount of change happening in my life, practically none of which is great or even good. Allow me to take you on a guided tour of Changeland, featuring the Funkapotomus in a starring role.

For our first stop, let's visit Kim's not-so-new-anymore job. I weathered quite well the initial transition in November. Making the move after eleven years at Judson Press was surprisingly painless. But as you know, my dear colleague/boss Burt passed away in January and that saddened me tremendously. I soldiered on and the dean lifted my spirits by taking a minute to say hello to me in the mornings. But now they've gone and replaced Burt. The new gentleman started a couple weeks ago and by all appearances he's a good guy. He says the right things, does the right things, treats his staff the right way. I think it's the staff part that's causing me to be childish bothering me. I'm not used to being "supervised" by someone ten years younger than me. Actually, I'm not accustomed to being supervised at all. And if I am going to work for someone, I want it to be Burt. I miss him. And it doesn't help that the dean stopped saying hello to me. I guess hellos are reserved for his direct reports.

We're now moving out of Career World toward our second stop -- Parenthood. A considerably more complex site on our tour. Simply put, I'm becoming painfully aware that my children don't really want me involved in their lives anymore. They still need me to drive them places, but that's about it. Heck, Abby can make her own meals, go grocery shopping, and do her laundry, rendering me almost completely obsolete. Being sad about this is terribly ironic given that I spent the first ten five few years of their lives wishing they didn't need me so damn much. It's not that I've had a change of heart and really want to do stuff for my kids, it's more that I want to be needed and loved and then free to decline all demands and requests they make of me. Kinda the way I want to be invited to parties, but don't actually want to go.

Now, let's pay a visit to Friendville. This year I watched as my childrens' relationships evolved and in some cases dissolved. Over the past year I too have seen a number of my friendships change. Some have become stronger and more fulfilling, while others have faded or been strained by forces left unspoken. Never an easy thing, no matter how old you are.

And speaking of age, like it or not, we have to take a moment for Grown Up Stuff. My parents, my friends' parents, and my aunts and uncles are all getting older (as if the rest of us are standing still). This means we're increasingly dealing with loss. My Aunt Faify passed last month. My friend Amy's father died in June. And my Aunt Glenna only has a short time left.as she battles leukemia. In the years ahead loss is going to become way too familiar. I know it's inevitable, but it still weighs on me. I'm not in the slightest bit prepared to lose my parents.

Let's make Media Presbyterian Church the fifth and final stop on our tour. Formerly a place of comfort, fellowship and strength, my church has become a source of division, stress and disappointment. For those of you who aren't experiencing hell's arrival in your place of worship, let me tell you it sucks. Our senior pastor resigned after it was discovered he had been (and is still) in a relationship with a former coworker while she was employed by the church. (And no, it's not our awesome former children's director, Cara.) His behavior is in direct violation of the Presbyterian Church's Book of Order. And yes, I've only shared the Reader's Digest condensed version with you, partly because it's not proper to air what is actually years worth of dirty laundry, but mostly because I don't want to be sued for libel. Let's just say I feel like Dorothy, seeing the great and powerful Oz behind the curtain. It's been heartbreaking and emotionally and physically exhausting, and I've been bitterly disappointed not only in my pastor but in those whose responsibility it is (as church elders) to make important decisions related to this difficult situation. Even though I'm certain we'll survive this turbulent time, a strong, loving church -- your place of refuge -- is last place you want to see change.

This concludes our tour of Changeland.  I hope you've enjoyed the whine. Please watch the tram car and carefully exit through the gift shop. Come back soon!

If It Happened to Her, Could it Happen to Me? Or you?

I suppose many of us have experienced "not being in our right mind." We know we're not quite ourselves, or we do something completely out of character and blame it on a momentary lapse of judgement. What most of us don't experience, thankfully, is a complete break with reality. One that causes us to "snap."

I don't know if last week's tragedy in Nether Providence Township, where I live, made national news, but if you're anywhere in the Philadelphia region you probably heard about Maria Reyes White, the woman who took a glass of water and two knives to bed with her last Sunday evening, waited till her husband fell asleep, and then stabbed him to death.

Karen, one of my dearest friends, worked with White at the local elementary school where she was a teacher's support aide. When she learned what had happened, Karen, like the rest of her colleagues, was in shock. White was a woman they all loved, admired, and respected. She was a devout woman of faith who adored children. She was normal. Just a quieter version of the rest of us. How was it possible that she had committed murder? Karen's response to this horrific tragedy ran the gamut of emotions -- shock, disbelief, anger, fear, sadness, guilt. Yes, even guilt. Karen acknowledged that in the two weeks leading up to that Sunday night, White "wasn't herself." She seemed agitated and easily frustrated. White explained that she hadn't been sleeping and that she wasn't feeling well. She went home sick on several occasions. Karen and her fellow teachers expressed their concern, undoubtedly some suggested she see a doctor, but that's where their involvement ended.

Karen is heartbroken because of that. Because she believes if someone had reached out and helped White get the care she so desperately needed, maybe none of this would have happened. White appears to be another tragic example of a mentally ill individual who slipped through the cracks. And indeed, an opportunity to save her (and her husband) was lost. The day before she killed her him, White went to a friend for help and what she said clearly communicated that she had lost touch with reality. She had suffered a true psychological breakdown, a diagnosis you could make without a medical degree. According to the Delaware County Times:

On the day before she allegedly killed her husband, Maria Reyes White drove to a friend’s house to express her concern that the Chinese government was engaged in a devious plot to infect the minds of American citizens and turn them into mass murderers.

It is through computers, Reyes told her friend, that the Chinese are sending psychic messages to get Americans to hurt children.

As Reyes ranted on about the plot, the friend quickly realized the sweet-natured, kid-loving mother-of-two had lost her mind. She was delusional and paranoid. She believed a bomb had been placed in her car. She believed she had predicted the attack on 9/11 and that another terrible attack was imminent. She believed the Chinese had gotten to Adam Lanza in Newtown, Conn., and convinced him to go on his shooting spree. She believed she was being followed.

White's husband Matt picked up his wife at her friend's home and took her to a crisis care unit where she was deemed not a danger to herself or others. That same night, she took his life.

While this case, like the seemingly endless violent tragedies that have come before it, demands a conversation about mental healthcare in this country, I need to say something about the effect it has on those of us who have personally experienced mental illness. Though I have struggled "only" with depression, I have to wonder what could be hidden inside of me. Inside any of us. I'm sure those who knew her could not have imagined White saying what she said or doing what she did. She was a kind, gentle and quiet schoolteacher. Someone who functioned like the rest of us, going to work every day and raising her now college-age children. What occurs in someone's brain that could transform them so dramatically. And, if it happened to her, could it happen to me? And if my circle of family and friends noticed a change in me, would our healthcare system do its part?

These are questions that can keep you up at night, so if I seem a little tired lately, please forgive me.

A Love Story

I recall a conversation with a friend on the topic of greeting cards. More specifically, cards for her husband. Her husband is the demonstrative, lavish-shows-of-affection type and she's just about the complete opposite. Sometimes she feels guilty about this and on the rare occasion that the mood strikes, she'll pick up one of those warm and fuzzy, lovey-dovey cards for her man. Unfortunately, he often doesn't see them.

"I have good intentions, but by the time I planned to give it to him he's somehow irritated me again and the mood is lost." 

This leads me to the purpose for this post. A declaration of my love for my husband. I know this is not typical Kim territory. Positive, loving, and kind are generally not words associated with this freakin' angel, but the spirit is moving me today. I did consider waiting to share this on our anniversary (Jan. 7) or his birthday (Jan. 8), but there's the distinct possibility that he will tick me off by then. So here it is.

My husband Rob. A love story. Quit rolling your eyes and go with it.

Like every married couple, Rob and I have had (and will continue to have) our ups and downs. Our arguments are generally short-lived, but there are stretches of time when they seem to come more often than either of us would like. Some years overall seem tougher than others in every way, not just for our relationship. I recall 2011 being pretty crappy, but as we wind down 2012, I find myself smiling. Me, smiling? Weird, huh?

So what's made this a year worth smiling about? I think it was the way all the forces combined to remind, reassure, and reinforce what an amazing gift the love is between a husband and wife. More than a year ago Rob was suffering with extreme back problems that resulted in ER visits and ultimately surgery. I held his hand and tried to comfort him, but was otherwise helpless while he dealt with pain that actually made childbirth seem like a walk in the park. While my heart broke to see him in such agony, I think the brokenness, when healed, made my heart--and my love for him--even stronger. And this year when my depression brought me lower than I'd been in a decade, Rob took care of me. Never losing patience or avoiding the problem despite not truly understanding what I was experiencing because he hasn't been there himself. He simply loved me when I most needed loving.

Somewhere along the line Rob also started making a visible effort to be more involved on the home front with everything from housework and the kids to my ever-growing to do list. He knows my least favorite chores and takes them upon himself. He knows I hate running errands so he does the running. And he started doing whatever he could to deal with sick kids or their appointments so I wasn't always sacrificing my career to handle everything that came along. At the same Rob started pitching in, he became more attentive and affectionate. I used to tell him I always knew when he wanted something because his level of helpful activity and romantic gestures were blatantly obvious took a marked turn. Now I never know when he wants something because his good deeds are such a regular part of how he treats me. I'm never sure now when it's time for sex.This new approach to marriage was very disorienting for a while, but trust me, I've gotten used to it.

Don't get me wrong. Rob was never a lousy husband (I know a few of those). I never questioned his love for me. But like many women, there were times I felt like my biggest job as a wife and mother was making sure everything didn't fall down around us. We were in that rut that is so easy to fall into after 15+ years of marriage, two full time jobs and full-time kids and incredibly full lives. I truly believe having cared for each other through some difficult times and actually listening to each other's needs has brought us to this much better place. I don't know if it's Rob, the new job, or the correct combination of meds (probably all three), but I haven't felt this content, this thankful, or this light in a very long time.

Rob, I know you don't appreciate being the subject of my blog posts, but I hope you know this one was written in love to thank you for all you've done, all you're doing, and all you are to me. Now don't screw it up.