When my wife and I got married, someone told us at one of the parties given for us that marriage is the hardest job you’ll ever love.
Of course, the speaker didn’t say anything about a child who gets sick on holidays, septic tank problems, deaths in the family, a cat who looks right at you and makes water on the carpet, tough financial straits and nagging health problems.
The thoughtful friend also didn’t mention mutual stony silences, stubbornness and disagreements about money or the care and feeding of the aforementioned child.
But neither did the speaker cover New England in October, the ability to finish each other’s sentences, snow in the Rocky Mountain National Park, repeated trips through Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin with a delighted child, beautiful sunsets out our back window, similar tacky thoughts on other people’s taste and laughs on a queen-size bed outfitted with two fluffy adults and an angular teenager.
So, as we approach Valentine’s Day and our 19th anniversary in May, my wife and I exist in a loving détente. Like many couples, we probably aren’t as affectionate as we should be with each other, and we probably don’t profess our love to each other as often as we should.