It's Worth It

I heard her crying downstairs.

"Mom?"

I ran down the steps and found her curled up on the carpet sobbing while Rachmaninoff blared in the background, compliments of our new CD player.

She was listening to the Adagio Sostenuto of the Rach #2. The woodwinds and the piano had just erupted into that epic nostalgic waltz accompanied by the tragically mournful string aria. It's a genius musical triumph where the wistful joy of hope is perfectly interlaced with the reverent sorrow of experience.

As I walked into the living room I could almost see bright lanterns hanging against a backdrop of a warm summer evening, my parents holding each other close, alone on a pier underneath the shimmering stars. I blinked and the scene evaporated into a colorful smokey haze that swished away revealing my mom lying on the ground next to her tool belt supplied with Mr. Bubbles, sponges, and a toilet brush.

"Mom? Are you okay?"

Surprised, my mom glanced up at her pre-teen daughter and rolled her eyes, a little embarrassed to be found.

"Why are you crying?" I whispered, obviously distressed to see my caretaker in pieces on the ground.

She stared up at the ceiling with tears dripping off her cheeks. "I'm crying because...because it's worth it, George."

Mom was a little dramatic. Come on, Rachmaninoff? But she wasn't dramatic in the wo-is-me-everybody-fawn-over-the-kingdom-of-my-vanity kind of way...that was me, because I was 13. She was dramatic in the life-is-a-passionate-adventure-so-juice-every-moment kind of way.

"Umm..." I stood there awkwardly.

Her gaze lingered for a split second longer in the land of the sentimental, the state of being where one connects experience with meaning, and then she turned away, ready to face reality equipped with a renewed dose of Nancy hermeneutics.

"Everything's fine," she reassured, "And she shook her head and closed her eyes. "It's just that...It's just that life is really hard sometimes," she breathed in and then relaxed. "But when I listen to Rachmaninoff...it reminds me that life is worth it. You know why?" She suddenly opened her eyes and stared at me, looking right past my bright blue mascara, into my soul. "Because life is full of beauty despite all the gunk - and, in fact, sometimes life is beautiful because of the gunk. Because even gunk can be transformed into something beautiful. Life is hard, but it's worth it."

I'm not sure what specific circumstance my mom held behind her words at that moment, but I know she was thinking about my dad. Though they were madly in love, it had not been an easy marriage. They had both brought their own demons into matrimony and...demons suck.

Anyways, they made it work. They more than made it work, they had a vibrant, engaging marriage built on promises renewed daily. It was beautiful.

But when I knelt across the alter with my soon-to-be husband, I forgot all about my mother's words and proceeded to systematically freak out. At that moment I suddenly realized that I didn't love him completely. I was holding back. Crap. The guests were clothed in white linen and lace, crystal droplets hung from the ceiling, a chorus of happy sniffles attended the sealer's touching words, a garland of measured peace filled the room, and the bride was about to make a break for it. I could just see myself:

I would frantically jump up and yell, "Handsome! Let's get out of here!" snatch up my skirt, and scope out the nearest exit. Handsome would raise his eyebrows at me as if to imply, "Are you serious?" Grandma would faint, my sister would let out an exasperated sigh and slap her hand against her forehead, the sealer would roll his eyes and snap his book shut, and I would grab Handsome's hand, kick open the french double doors exposing my garter, and we'd take off down the hall, kissing the marriage thing goodbye.

But what kind of bride runs out on her wedding ceremony with the jilted groom? A gamaphobic hippie bride, that's who. Oh...and me.

Except I'm not a hippie, and I didn't run. I got married.

He made me so happy! Happier than I had ever been in my entire life. I wanted to be with him for the rest of forever, so obviously I wanted to love him completely, but I couldn't. I was too afraid. What if he was taken away from me? People I loved had been taken away from me before, and I guess my heart was a little broken. What a cliché.

But, I took a gamble. I didn't really know if my heart was capable of loving completely. I didn't really know if I believed deep love was worth all the gunk that comes with it. But I married him anyways and I loved him as much as I could. Handsome knew I was holding back, but I guess it was worth the risk for him as well.

Not the fairytale love story you're used to hearing, right? Isn't the wedding supposed to be the climax of perfect love? Whelp folks, sorry to disappoint, but this is a post-nuptial fairytale.

So we returned from the honeymoon and began to build a life together. It was awesome!...but we noticed some little hiccups right off the bat.

Because around fourth grade I decided that I was a feminist and I was never going to cook for my husband....ever. But as a single in college, Handsome decided that cooking meant going to Wendy's and The Cheese Cake Factory every night. This created some issues. "Why do I have to be the one in charge of cooking!?" I moaned. Handsomeexcitedly looked up from his homework and I could see in his eyes he was thinking, "Wait, is she giving up the cooking role? Yes! I'll totally take over!" And then we were both swooshed away into that alternate reality where Handsome was in charge of cooking.

"Yaha!" came the shouts of the table guests throwing their mugs of root beer high in a toast of gluttony (but not gluten-y, because Handsome's a celiac). The table was dressed with puddings, pork pot pies, stuffed birds, gilded apples, stewed potatoes, and a roasted pig on a spit. "How we shall handle the matter of payment, sir?" Handsome's personal chef would inquire.

"Just put it on the tab, Archibald. Ha-Ha!"

"Right-O!" exclaims Archibald, "And here's some Jello-O! And some gluten-free cake, and gluten-free cupcakes, and gluten-free pizza, and little gluten-free sandwiches shaped like dolphins, and-"

"Okay!" I'd yell, and we'd fly back into reality. "Never mind! I want to be in charge of cooking AND the budget!"

And then we were suddenly swooshed away into the reality where I really was in charge of cooking...the reality of last week: "Yes, we're having food storage pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner...again."

We're still figuring out the role thing - and don't tell me both people should be equally in charge because...yeah right. We all know that one person is always a little more in charge. This role issue has pretty much been the single source of all of our "fights." We finally decided that all the roles are, in fact, equally both of our responsibilities, but each role needs one manager to direct it. To be "in charge" means that you are empowered to first, create a vision, and second, delegate tasks based on that vision in order to accomplish it. So we sat down together and divvied out roles based on what was best for us as a couple, not what social pressure dictated. And guess who's in charge of cooking and cleaning? Me. I actually "called" the roles because, turns out, I'm pretty particular about how they get done, but Handsome definitely provides his two cents and his helping hand. It was a decision we made together.

And that's what makes marriage so great: Doing hard things together. We hate cleaning, but some of our happiest memories come from cleaning on Saturday mornings while blasting Nickel Creek, Coldplay, and Hercules throughout our 480 square foot apartment. And for some reason, we always end up dancing in the kitchen while we're making dinner. Drudgery's not so bad with your best friend. 

But it's not all drudgery. After we had been married awhile, I wanted to write a song for Handsome on the guitar. It was a surprise! But he walked in on me while I was composing it, dang it. I could have just pretended to merely be playing the guitar when he came in...something I did all the time. But, instead, as soon as he opened the door we made eye contact and my jaw dropped. While staring at him I threw the guitar against the guitar stand and we both turned to watch it teeter before falling with a loud harmonic bang. I turned back toward him alarmed and then bolted across the room, slid onto the bed, and stuffed the lyrics under my pillow. I slowly lifted my head and sheepishly looked over at Handsome. After split second of deafening silence we exploded into laughter.

Oh my gosh, we laughed! We are always laughing. We've spent so many late night hours giggling because of jokes only we appreciate. We've spent hours divulging secrets and creating dreams based on the delusions of our looming grandeur. Sometimes we're mad at each other, sometimes we're fascinated with each other. We take turns doing the dishes and giving massages. I'll hold Handsome in my arms when he's troubled and Handsome will hold me in his arms when I'm blue, and we count our tear-stained sleeves as beautiful gifts. He has a habit of randomly showing up with Cosmic Brownies and yellow flowers, and I have a habit of giving him the absolute best Christmas gifts EVER! Budgeting, sweeping, kissing, ooh-la-la-ing, crying, arguing, laughing, dancing, and sometimes just sitting there quietly, holding hands - it's all part of our life together and it's beautiful.

But always in the back of my mind, a little thought whispers, "Don't get too comfortable, because this could end at any moment." 

So I've kept my guard and life has continued.

And then one day we had a little baby. That day and the months leading up to that day were filled nausea, leg cramps, unruly hormones, contractions and Hansome was right there with me. My lover, my coach, my friend. We grew closer than ever before as we helped bring the little bundle of love into the world. It was amazing. But once we got home with the little guy, and the initial excitement wore off, I started becoming aware of just how much our lives had changed.

Maybe it was because my progesterone levels had dropped 400 percent, but one night the thought occurred to me that the "just us" relationship was over. Tears erupted. 

It was over. I was filled with regret. Had I enjoyed it as much as I could have? Had I somehow poisoned the romance with my bitter fear? Did I even love him? 

I started piecing together memories of last two years in my mind and discovered something beautiful. Month after month Handsome had been carefully tearing away at my facade and barricade, reaching deeper and deeper into my affection. He forgave me for my relentless fear, he forgave me for my distance, and I couldn't help myself, but fall in love. And with the birth of our baby, the Handsome and George relationship had grown exponentially deeper. 

I was in love with my husband! I was in love with him, but because I had been so afraid that he would die, I didn't enjoy the love. And now the Handsome and George relationship was over! And even if it wasn't over, he could die tomorrow or the next day - either way, I had missed it. I hadn't appreciated our love when I had it, and now it was over. And with that thought, I broke into even more tears. 

Yeah, yeah...I take after my mom when it comes to the drama department. Handsome walked in and laughed out loud when he saw the mountain of tissues piled up next to me. He stroked the back of my head and asked what was wrong. I explained my sorrow and he replied, "I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here, I'm right here." 

He was right there. 

Wait a second, he was right there! He had always been right there. What an irony! I was so afraid of losing him that I wasn't enjoying the fact that he was STILL here! "I'm not dead, yet!" He laughed. And suddenly I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge returning from his visit with the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. Was there still time to enjoy life? Was there still time to enjoy loving Handsome? 

A few weeks later:

"George, look!" Handsome laughed, "The baby wants to sit up, he wants to be part of our world..."

"Part of our world?" I replied. Attached to the breast pump, looking like Madonna (if you've never seen the mechanics of breast pumping, count yourself blessed), I slowly turned and locked eyes with Hadsome. He returned my gaze with a nod, knowing what was about to happen. "He wants to go, where the people go!" I began singing, "He wants see, wants to see 'em dancing! Jumping around on those, What da ya call 'em?-"

"Trampolines!!!!!" entered Handsome's operatic vibrato! 

George: "Up where they...nuuuuh!" (forgot the words).

Handsome: "Up where they....laaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

And together: "Up Where They Play All Day Nuh Nuh NUUUUUUUH!!!"

George crooning quietly: "Wish I could be....Part of their Woooooorld!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Sppppplash!" With a heroic imaginary splash Handsome lifted our little baby BOY out of the imaginary ocean water onto an imaginary bolder with our baby's imaginary mermaid fin and imaginary long flowing red hair sparkling in the sunlight.

So our love wasn't over! Our relationship still flourished, reaching new epic heights (along with our insanity, but that's a story for another day). Hooray!

But then...what if it ends tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the next?

If Handsome was taken away from me, part of my soul would shrivel up and die, never to be revived again until I was back in his arms. Would the love and happiness I have experienced thus far be worth the possible pain that may be waiting just outside our doorstep?

______

I was holding the baby trying to finish the last of my oatmeal and he started fussing again. In order to soothe him so I could finish my eleven o'clock breakfast, I had iTunes playing Rachmaninoff. The Adagio Sostenuto of the Rach #2 came on. My baby suddenly stopped fussing and stared at the computer in awe. It was the part, you know, where the woodwinds and the piano erupt into that epic nostalgic waltz accompanied by the tragically mournful string aria. It's a genius musical triumph where the wistful joy of hope is perfectly interlaced with the reverent sorrow of experience.

And then, just like my mom had done years earlier, I started to cry.

Holding the baby in my arms I thought about Handsome and the love we had created and enjoyed. Then I snuggled the little baby boy and kissed the top of his head remarking "Life is beautiful, little one. Life is worth all the gunk you will have to go through. I'm sorry, you're gonna have to go through gunk, there's no way around it...but it's worth it."


Happy second anniversary, Handsome. I love you.