marriage – Erin Strybis

Scenes from a pregnancy

Anxiety loop

My stomach feels too tight. I shift in my desk chair and place one hand on my pregnant belly, feeling for movement. The pressure remains, so strong I could bounce a penny off of it. The kick never comes; my baby is likely sleeping.

Is this Braxton Hicks? The start of real contractions? Something scary? These questions circle like vultures, eating away at my peace.

At 38 weeks pregnant, I’ve felt this way before. I know I need to up my water intake and possibly lie down. The problem is, I’m supposed to be working. A full Outlook calendar stares at me from the screen of my laptop. Can I make my 11 a.m. call? Will I have to cancel my 1:30 p.m. interview?

I feel my belly again. No, the answer is obviously no. I guzzle the rest of my water bottle, message my coworkers that I’ll be offline for a bit and waddle over to the couch.

Smartphone in hand, I summon a message my nurse sent weeks ago after I sent her a frantic note about third trimester belly tightening. On that awful day, I feared I’d missed an important signal from my body. I feared early labor. I feared the worst: damage. Perhaps this is lingering trauma from miscarriage — the inability to trust one’s own womb to carry life.

The nurse wrote back quickly: “as your uterus continues to grow, the strain will increase, which may bring on Braxton Hicks contractions. No need to be alarmed just make sure you are getting enough rest and water. Pay attention to frequency and if they become painful.” I scanned her words a dozen times until I felt better.

Today I read the message again: No need to be alarmed. The vultures dissipate. I drop my phone on my chest and succumb to a nap.

Joyful bucket list

I’m not one who enjoys being pregnant. To clarify: I’m deeply grateful to be pregnant, but I don’t love the associated bodily changes. Not the severe nausea nor the pregnancy insomnia. Neither the back pain nor the sweats (in the middle of winter, no less!). And don’t even get me started on the weight gain.

From another angle, I see this parade of pregnancy pains telling me that my body is doing a miraculous thing: creating life.

At the moment, my chest is simmering. Is this the roasted cauliflower I ate for dinner? I dig around in the cabinet for the chalky tablets I take to relieve heartburn, another side effect of pregnancy. I throw back two and remind myself to be grateful that my stomach is no longer tight and the countdown to baby is less than a week away.

Flipping open the pages of my journal, I make a post-pregnancy bucket list of all things I hope to enjoy once baby has arrived:

An ice cold glass of Riesling
Sushi and sashimi
Turkey sandwiches
NOT having to pee constantly
Soft cheeses
Saunas and hot tubs
Hot yoga class
NOT feeling like a beached whale
Breathing easier
Less worry (maybe?)
Baby snuggles!!

The list does its job. And so has the heartburn medicine. I put down the pen and picture myself holding and nursing our new little boy. I can’t help but smile like crazy.

How does it feel?

One evening after our son’s asleep, my husband Jay and I cozy up on our leather couch to watch Station Eleven. Here’s a show that projects the future after a deadly pandemic, cast through the eyes of individuals who are inextricably linked by a graphic novel of the same name. Given our current context, we find it both haunting and hopeful.

Tonight’s episode centers on Jeevan, our favorite character. We wince when a crippling accident separates him from the girl he’s been parenting, landing him in a makeshift hospital filled with pregnant ladies. Jeevan’s so sick with worry for the girl he abandoned he looks physically ill. When a patient embraces him, he holds on hard and asks her, “How does it feel to be pregnant?”

I grimace. Countless times throughout this pregnancy I’ve been asked “How are you feeling?” Most of the time I’ve responded with “Fine,” peppered with a physical shift: “Fine, but I’m not sleeping.” “Fine! The baby’s really kicking.” “Fine, but my back aches.”

“How does it feel to be pregnant?” is an entirely different question.

The mama-to-be rests her head on Jeevan’s shoulder and answers honestly: “Scary.”

Tears arrive unbidden. Never would I ever expect to feel so seen by this show. I turn toward Jay and remark, “That’s it. Sometimes, that’s exactly how I feel being pregnant — scared.”

The promise

When I met my dear friend at Starbucks last summer, we had a lot to catch up on. She told me she’d changed jobs and moved to a different home. We traded updates on our writing. I shared about my miscarriage.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Erin,” she said, setting down her coffee. “How are you doing?”

“Honestly? I’m up and down. I’m still devastated, but I’m also pregnant again…”

She let out a little shriek. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you!” I answered, beaming. “I feel a little guilty for how happy that makes me.” I took a sip of my chai tea latte. “I’m also pretty terrified.”

My friend nodded and furrowed her brow. She asked, “Can I give you some advice?”

“Yeah, I’ll absolutely take it.” She rarely doles out advice so I knew this was important.

“After I miscarried, then got pregnant again, I felt the same way as you. Actually, I was so anxious I struggled to enjoy it,” she said, her eyes growing a little misty. I clutched my chai, hanging onto her words. “Please don’t forget to enjoy it,” she continued. “Eat the ice cream, buy cute new pregnancy clothes, take pictures of your belly bump. Don’t let worry steal your joy.”

Now my eyes had begun to mist. “I promise,” I said, meeting her gaze. “I promise to enjoy it.”

Nesting

My task for this weekend is to pack my hospital bag. I’ve been telling everyone who asks that we have everything we need for our new baby, however, once I start packing, I realize there are some things we can’t find in the storage bins from our firstborn’s baby days.

I pull up my Target app and start searching for the missing items: one new bottle brush for baby — click. New Lansinoh cream for nursing — click. A soft crib sheet studded with stars, a new nursing cover, extra deodorant for my hospital stay. Click, click, click.

I hit one final click to confirm my purchases and announce to Jay in the kitchen, “That’s the last of it!”

“The last of what?” he asks, looking up from the dishes.

“The last of our baby list,” I say, striding to the refrigerator to cross “pack hospital bag” off our baby to-do list. “I just need you to pick up this Target order and we’ll be set.”

“Sure babe,” Jay replies, turning a dish over in a stream of water.

“This is exciting! Thank you for all your help,” I say, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m lucky to have you.”

I turn on my heel and enter our nearby bedroom, which will also serve as a nursery for our newborn. My son’s old crib sits against the far wall by the windows. Kitty-corner stands our maplewood dresser, once covered with picture frames, now donning a changing pad, baby monitor and sound machine. My eyes land on our newest addition: a dove gray glider, a gift from Jay to replace the old rocking chair I used to nurse our son Jack. I settle into the glider and issue a little exhale. It is so comfortable.

Just then Jack ambles around the corner and leaps into my lap. “Hey buddy,” I say, folding my arms around him and readjusting him so he isn’t pressing on my belly.

“What are you doing, Mom?”

“Oh just getting some things ready for baby brother,” I say, combing my fingers through his straight blond hair. “Are you ready to be a big brother?”

“Uh-huh… uh, Mom?” he asks, looking up at me.

“What’s up buddy?”

“Does the baby already know how to swim?”

I giggle and pat my stomach. Jack’s learning to swim himself right now and making good progress in his lessons, that must be where this question came from. “Your little brother’s swimming in my tummy, I suppose. But can he swim like you in the pool? No. Maybe when he’s old enough — closer to your age — you can help teach him?”

“I’m so excited for the baby to come!” he replies, leaning into my arms and gently pressing his arm around my belly.

“Me too, buddy,” I say, relishing his closeness. “You’re going to be a great big brother.”

Counting kicks

I’m at my final doctor’s appointment before my scheduled C-section. Two straps belt my belly, one holding a circular device that monitors the baby’s heartbeat. The other holds a piece that monitors my contractions. In my left hand is a clicker I’m using to count baby kicks while I take this non-stress test.

Bah-thump-bah-thump-bah-thump goes the baby’s heartbeat, intermixed with the fake laughter of the daytime talk show playing on the television in this room. I press my clicker on occasion, hearing a delayed beep.

After 25 minutes, my OB arrives to check the monitor. “I want to keep you here a little longer,” he says, eyes still on the screen. “The baby’s heartbeat slowed for a bit. We need some more time to watch him.”

With that, he leaves. My heart pounds in my chest, drowning out the bah-thumps of baby’s heartbeat. The talk show hosts’ chatter grows more annoying by the minute. Time slows to a trickle. The vultures return, nibbling away at my once calm demeanor.

Just when I think I can no longer take it, my OB returns. Suddenly he’s saying, “You’re good to go!” and I’m releasing the breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

Later, in the exam room, he asks if I have any questions. “Just one,” I answer, gripping the edges of the exam table. “How do I deal with all this anxiety? I’m so nervous for the baby to come . . . Honestly I’ve felt this way a lot while expecting.” I can’t bring myself to add “because of the miscarriage.” He knows though. He has my chart in front of him.

My OB stands and places one hand on mine and squeezes it. “This baby is healthy and beautiful,” he says, holding eye contact. “You’re going to be fine.”

I float out of the office, my steps a little lighter.

Cartwheels in the dark

At 3 a.m., I wake with a string of words in my head. Darkness floods the bedroom. I fling my arm out and scrounge inside my nightstand for a pen and sticky note to scribble the words before I forget them. I’m not sure where this sentence is going, but I know I need to capture it, however illegibly, so I can go back to sleep.

Finished writing, I reposition myself on my left side, one hand resting over my belly. Mercifully, my baby’s moving. First I feel a flutter, then a jiggle. Next comes the cartwheeling, a pleasant rolling in my womb.

I recall the promise I made to my friend and my OB’s words about this healthy, beautiful baby. I realize what I’m feeling is joy, pure joy, alongside an ever present twinge of worry. While I can’t extinguish fear completely, I believe I can carry both. I want to savor these magic days before everything changes.

I can’t wait to meet you, I think, imagining some sort of telepathy between me and my baby. “I love you,” I whisper aloud, including his full name, all six syllables of it. His presence is a gift. A miracle. Our hope in the midst of this never-ending pandemic. With every cartwheel in the dark, my joy increases.

A few things I love

I love sunsets,
I love words,
I love paying attention to the movements of birds,
I love the warmth of a fire
and hearty conversation,
I love taking long vacations,

I love my husband’s strong embrace
and our son’s melodious laugh,
I love piping hot coffee with half-and-half,
I love fresh-cut hydrangeas
and a candle on my desk,
I love having really good sex,
I love minestrone and Aperol Spritz and fresh-baked baguette,
I love a Bad Day ice cream sundae to help me forget,

I love it when the clouds are painted cotton candy pink,
I love reading writers whose work makes me think,
I love practicing yoga
and walks in the woods,
I love seeing people collaborate for the common good,

I love the mountains,
I love to sing,
I love pushing my son on a tire swing,
I love MagnaTiles and Hot Wheels cars strewn across our carpet,
I love using drive-up order service at our local Target,
I love the smell of fabric softener wafting in the breeze,
I love how my dog’s presence puts me at ease,

I love being with friends who feel like home,
I love and crave more time alone,
I love baby announcements and heartfelt letters,
I love chunky and soft oversized sweaters,
I love rainbows, the first snow, calming waters, blazing leaves,
I love watching Hallmark Christmas movies,
I love feeling the wind tickling my hair,
I love how protests and petitions can be a form of prayer,

I love faith that makes space for questions,
the grace that sets me free,
a church that affirms each person’s dignity,
I love hearing my preschooler’s silly jokes,
I love listening to the stories of ordinary folks
I love art that’s beautiful and bold,
I love how writing invites me
to behold.

artist inspiration: Courtney Martin, Lemn Sissay, Ashlee Gadd + the Exhale Creativity writing community

To my husband of nine years

10/13/12 | It drizzled this morning. So much so we unleashed the dotted umbrellas purchased last minute for our wedding. I worried about my hair, the guests, our pictures. Did you know some say rain on your wedding day is good luck?

Standing across from you in our college chapel, I feel more than luck. I feel fluttering in my chest — not fear or nerves, rather, an awakening. Love six years in the making shifts in its cocoon, ready to fly. Your sky-blue eyes twinkle back at mine. Our hope is palpable.

My childhood pastor stands across from us reciting, “O sing to the LORD a new song, for he has done marvelous things.” I want to savor everything — light flooding the altar, my gardenia perfume mingling with my roses, your hand in mine, firm yet gentle. At 26, we have big goals, you for your business, me with my writing. One day, we’d like to get a dog. We hope to own a home and start a family. Become a new creation.

10/18/21 | We marked nine years of marriage last week. On our anniversary, a repairman was supposed to fix our long-broken oven. You laughed and called year nine “the oven anniversary.” I promised to bake celebratory banana bread. That weekend, we’d visit your folks’ place, where they’d watch our son, and we’d have a proper date night. Then the repairman cancelled. Our trip was postponed. And I wanted to say something here about our love, but I didn’t.

Tonight, before you leave for another business trip, you snuggle next to me on our couch and read one of my essays. I watch you squint at the draft and think how hard it must be to love a writer. You’ve been loving me like this — seeing me as I want to be seen, cheering me on — since we met in college. I’ve watched with awe as you achieved your goals, never quitting. In 15 years, we’ve seen each other through illness, health, hardship and ease. Isn’t that love, a kind of seeing?

Yet seeing you here, in the glow of our living room, I know the best part of these years hasn’t been observing each other grow. It’s been emerging together: traveling the world, cultivating a home, raising our son, making memories. We’ve been made new, over and over, through love and God’s grace.

At home together (a tiny love story)

The first notable thing about Jay was his hair: shockingly blonde and spiky.

The second: He was late to class on day one, strolling in during introductions. The only open seat was next to me, so he took it. His very presence shifted the air from stale to charged.

On our first date, we talked for hours about school, Greek life and growing up. He was my foil: analytical, relaxed, naturally gifted. Yet we worked. Being together felt like home.

II.

I spent the following semester in Cambridge, England. When a classmate’s boyfriend booked a flight to visit over Thanksgiving, Jay did too.

Under the glow of fluorescent lights, I scanned the crowd at Heathrow Airport. Jay’s hair caught my eye first: blonde spikes gliding across arrivals. When he saw me, his gait quickened. He dropped his backpack and wrapped me in an embrace. A stream of travelers flowed around us, rushing to their destinations, but us? We’d arrived.

We saw several sights that week. Yet the memory that stays is Heathrow — his hands around my waist, my head against his chest. Being held.

III.

We are eight years married, with a home in Chicago. Over this pandemic, we’ve spent most of our time here with our son Jack, a preschooler.

Recently, Jay left for his first work trip in nearly a year. Without him, these walls feel hollow.

One night over video chat, Jay reads Jack I’ll Love You Forever. After Jay closes the book, Jack circles his arms around the phone. Jay “hugs” him back, blowing kisses.

What is home? Not a place, but a feeling inside. It’s the joy that he brings when we’re wrapped in his love.

I wrote this post as part of a Blog Hop with Exhale — an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in the “280 words” series.

Joy at the water

“I just feel… trapped.”

I sigh this into my phone for what must be the 200th time in 2020. My therapist’s on the other line, likely sighing alongside me. She asks what’s trapping me.

It isn’t one thing, rather, it’s everything, I say, listing off the usual suspects — coronavirus, global warming, our lack of childcare, nonstop deadlines, mounds of dishes. I know we’re lucky. I should be grateful. Right now, I’m not.

She hmms and ahhhs, nudging me on. Searching deeper, I confess a greater truth: I’m worried about my husband.

A cancer survivor, Jay’s been wrestling with health concerns during this pandemic. What’s more, his small business was adversely affected by it, and contract work is sparse. He’s not as happy as he once was. Then again, neither am I. With so many uncertainties ahead, Anxiety’s ensnared us and stalled any hope of forward motion.

I miss my pre-pandemic husband.

I miss my pre-pandemic self.

Later, my therapist asks a pivotal question: “If you were free, where would you go?”

I inhale sharply. Free to go anywhere? The thought feels too sinful to entertain. I imagine one glorious night alone in a hotel room where I read and write for hours, take a long, hot shower and sleep without fear of my preschooler rousing me. This isn’t a dream I can realize without abandoning Jay, so I dream bigger — I dream for us.

It all comes rushing out in a breath: All the Chicago beaches are closed, but two hours away there’s this little beach town called South Haven where a favorite author spends her summers, and through her words I’ve learned so much about it, and it seems like a nice place to vacation. Maybe we’d rent a house there. We could watch our son Jack play in the sand for hours.

“Why don’t you?” My therapist’s voice is playful, almost teasing. For years she’s been my confidante and my lifeline, offering simple yet revelatory suggestions such as “Be gentle with yourself” and “Try taking a daily walk and see what happens.” Her advice has never failed me.

My dream takes root. It will be weeks before I decide to act.

***

What you need to understand about cancer is that it can’t be fully understood.

Cells in our bodies are dividing every day – skin, hair, nails and so on. Occasionally they go rogue and divide like wildfire, creating tumors, some benign, others malignant. Those malignant tumors are cancer. Scientists have determined that genetics and environment influence those imperfect divisions, but much is still unknown.

For example: How does a perfectly healthy 32-year-old who weight lifts, eats his oatmeal and generally has a stress-free outlook get cancer?

Cancer is a thief in the night who steals the one possession that always grounded you — the good health you took for granted. I write knowing that that story is Jay’s, not mine, to tell.

Yet ever since Jay had cancer in 2018, it’s colored my outlook. Life is short and cancer is a constant reminder of its brevity. There is always one more test, one more scan for recurrence lurking around the corner, determining our future.

Jay’s evaded death before, so COVID-19 scares us more than your average Americans. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe not.

Cancer is a thief.

***

One Sunday night in August, I flip open my laptop, determined to book us that beach house. While Jack sleeps and Jay plays video games in the basement, I meticulously search VRBO for rentals in South Haven, eventually settling on one with a pretty blue kitchen, three beds and two bathrooms, a cozy couch and elegant, arched doorways. It’s open the weekend after Labor Day, a time when the beach won’t be crowded. I consult no one and press “Book Now,” grinning at my secret.

Etching the dates for our long weekend into my otherwise empty planner, I pause, trying to recall when Jay’s next CT scan happens. I don’t believe I’ve created a schedule conflict, but I’ll need to check with him. I finish the entry, planting a seed of hope.

The next morning, I share the news with Jay. To my surprise, he OKs the trip, which lands just after his scan but right before he’ll receive test results. My stomach in knots, I ask if he wants to reschedule. He waves me off.

We invite Jay’s parents to join us. We decide that we’ll all quarantine the week leading up to the trip so everyone feels safe and comfortable.

A month later, I stuff beach towels and sunscreen in my suitcase, flanked by Jack, who bounces back and forth pleading, “Is it vacation? Is it vacation? I want to see Nana and Papa!” He hasn’t seen Jay’s parents since Christmas. I smile wearily and say, “Soon, buddy, soon!”

Vacation cannot come soon enough.

***

The house is just like its pictures, with the blue kitchen, cozy couch and arched doorways.

Seeing my mother-in-law Jane reunited with Jack, I blink back tears. “Nana!” he cries again and again, beaming and running to her. Jay and his father bend their heads toward each other, deep in conversation. I order pizza and treat the adults to a serving of my homemade sangria. That night, I go to bed full and happy. I don’t think of cancer at all.

The next day, we flock to the beach after breakfast. It’s breezier than I’d hoped, but the sun soars high and clear in the cloud-speckled sky, warming our shoulders.

Once our feet hit the sand, Jack rockets toward the water.

Jane and I keep watch, scanning the blue-gray waves as they roll in and out, sweeping the sand smooth repeatedly. As Jack frolics, I remark to Jane, “There’s something healing about the water.” She nods vigorously. To our right, Jay lounges on a beach towel, soaking up sunshine. I feel the tightness in my chest loosen, and wonder if he feels the same.

After lunch, we trek to a beach called Pilgrim’s Haven. Stones of all shapes and sizes blanket the shore and I realize we’ve unwittingly hit a home run with Jack — he’s currently obsessed with rocks and gemstones. Jack scampers off, picking through them one by one.

Jay and his father stand at the water’s edge, skipping stones. I imagine them tossing our worries into Lake Michigan, waves swallowing them whole. Jay sets up a treasure hunt for Jack, burying in the sand a small wooden chest filled with toy gemstones I bought for this occasion. I snap photos as they laugh and dig and think this is the happiest I’ve seen Jay all summer.

The treasure found, I settle into our camp chair near the water’s edge. I set my eyes on the horizon, where sky blurs into lake, and listen to the lapping tide. Rain clouds gather in the distance, but for the moment, all is calm.

***

On our last full day in South Haven, I sleep in until 9:30 a.m. I wake with a start, realizing the whole family’s risen before me, likely minding not to wake me. I read The Book of Longings alone at the table while munching granola and sipping coffee. The morning stretches out, still and quiet. I’ve been handed the precious gift for which I’d been longing.

Plotting out our day, I see the forecast calls for steady showers, but it looks like there’s an opening from now until lunchtime. If we want to enjoy the beach, we must act quickly, so we grab towels and speed to another spot my father-in-law’s discovered.

Under a gray sky, Jack scales sand dunes topped with prairie grass and ubiquitous yellow flowers that attract a smattering of Monarch butterflies. He weaves up and down the shoreline, avoiding other beach-goers. He’s edging closer and closer to the South Haven lighthouse and farther from where Jay and his parents have congregated. I sprint after Jack in my trusty powder blue Nikes, amazed at his fleetness.

Running on the beach, I am struck by how fast it’s gone, this vacation, this year, and though Anxiety lingers like the approaching storm, I want to seize this rising Joy and let it carry me to Chicago.

From the middle of a sand dune, Jack turns to me and asks, “Where’s Daddy?” I point toward the other end of the beach and he’s gone again, zipping toward his father. I bound toward them, shoes barely touching sand.

What answers wait for us on the other side of vacation? Will they ever find a cure? What questions will remain unanswered?

Seagulls circle overhead and a spritz of tide baptizes my ankles. If the rain comes now, I’ll run right through it. Life is brief and storms are to be expected. It’s also undeniably dazzling, this joyous race toward home.

Sand and water extend for miles out ahead of us. I think, in all of 2020, I’ve never felt so free.

My sweet son living his best life in South Haven.

The space between us

“Mommy and Daddy, are you best friends?” Our son issues the question over breakfast. I chew my Kashi cereal and shoot a glance at Jay, who’s busy draining his coffee. He raises his eyebrows over the mug and for a second, I think he’s leaving this response to me alone.

Best friends, huh?

We certainly hadn’t been acting like it. A recent dinnertime squabble had led to finishing our veggie burgers in icy silence, which led to raised voices in the kitchen and the finale: me sulking in the bedroom. What were we even fighting about that day? I cannot remember.

Bit by bit we’d built up walls — a terse comment here, tasks left undone there, feeling unseen and under-appreciated amid parenting our son.

Last Saturday, I’d gone so far as to grumble, “Why did we get married again?

I needed to remember.

Jay and I met sophomore year in sociology class. He, the laid-back genius, was late to class on the first day. I, the driven student, had arrived early. When he strolled into the classroom, there was one spot next to me.

He took it.

It became his permanent spot.

Jay was everything I wasn’t: low-key, low-stress, able to hang out for hours on end without accomplishing anything. He made me laugh. He was kind. He listened. When we were together, all my worries and stressors melted away.

We talked for hours into the night. Time together was one long exhale.

Hours led to weeks, led to 14 years “officially” together this month. Seven years married. Three years with our son.

Later that Saturday night, as we settled in to our respective sides of the bed, I put down my novel and asked him a question usually reserved for our preschooler. “What’s wrong?” And out it came — all the worries and fears and annoyances, his and mine. We talked for hours into the morning, crying, laughing, kissing. We found each other’s arms, closing the space between us. Just before sleep arrived, I sighed.

Are you best friends?

Our son’s question drifts the air. I swallow my cereal. Jay sets down his coffee.

My husband and I lock eyes and smile. We answer with one breath: “Yes.”

To have and to hold

erin and jay strybis — *credit: Chris Ocken*

And you have a person in your life whose hand
you like to hold?
“Yes, I do.”

It must surely, then, be very happy down there
in your heart
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

—Mary Oliver

My husband Jay and I celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary on October 13. If you count dating, which I certainly do, we’ve been together over a dozen years. At first, after we married, it didn’t seem much different than dating. For six years we’d been serious about our love, on our wedding day we said vows to prove it. Marriage didn’t change much for us, at least not in that first year.

Our life circumstances have shifted significantly since 2012, the year we became husband and wife. After years of city living with minimal responsibility, we have a car loan, a dog, a mortgage and a baby (procured in that order). We officially crossed into the realm of “adulting,” and have oodles of paperwork to prove it. In recent years, we’ve taken to commiserating with one another, stating the obvious, “Being an adult is HARD!” The hard stuff feels a little easier when you name it.

To that point: Hands down the past year has been the hardest year yet of our marriage. I thought this on our fifth wedding anniversary, the year our son was born, not knowing the challenges we’d encounter leading up to this anniversary. As new parents, we fought over diaper changes, the dishwasher and even dog food. We battled sleep deprivation and took turns caring for our son Jack when he got sick. There were many joyful moments too, like witnessing Jack’s first smile and his first shaky steps. Also figuring out how to date each other again (pro tip: finding a trustworthy babysitter helps). We were shocked by how hard parenting was, but at least we were doing it together.

This past year, however, showed me the meaning behind our vows, “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health . . .” We faced the greatest obstacle of our life together when my husband got sick. This summer we lived in sickness, for worse and for poorer. We didn’t always live gracefully–in fact, I definitely didn’t live gracefully. Most of the time, I felt terrified and tired. I became intimate friends with anger, anxiety, fear and heartache. A lot of the time, I was parenting alone.

In the middle of the summer, I went on a five-day work trip to Houston, a brief escape from hardship. The trip couldn’t have happened at a more horrible time. Not only was Jay having a difficult health week, but our son managed to catch the dreaded hand, foot and mouth virus two nights before my flight out. Luckily, I’d arranged for my in-laws to visit and care for Jack. Low on sleep, I kissed my family goodbye and headed to the airport, feeling a mix of deep relief and nagging guilt. Ultimately the work trip was fun, and sleeping in my own bed for days, with no snoring or cries or worries to wake me, was heaven.

The last morning of my trip, I looked at myself in the mirror and struggled to hold back tears: I envied my former single self and all my single friends. I wanted to turn back time or fly home to a different life. I wanted to be free. I touched my face, then noticed my ring. My heart ached for my family too.

When I came home, I could barely contain my joy when I hugged and kissed my son and husband for the first time. Later on, snuggling my husband and our dog while they snored along in our cozy bed, I struggled to imagine my life without Jay. I’d spent much of the summer going over what-if scenarios regarding Jay’s health, pushing myself to be a caretaker, primary parent and provider even though it felt like I was barely holding on myself.

Holding my sweet husband that evening, I realized I didn’t have to. I could choose to thank God for each day we have together, rather than worry about the future. This outlook sustained me through the rest of the summer–and continues to be a guiding force in my life today.

Six years ago, on a rainy October day, Jay donned a slate gray tux and I wore cream-colored lace dress as we stood in our alma mater’s chapel and recited our wedding vows. We were–and are–surrounded by a crowd of witnesses who support our union.

That moment in the chapel is where marriage diverges from dating. As one year leads to the next, and life circumstances shift, living vows is not for the faint of heart. Here’s what I know: My husband and I faced great adversity in this past year of marriage and we are stronger for it. And now, as we enter into our next year of marriage, we’ll continue facing lows and highs.

I’m just glad we still get to do it together.

Husband of mine, I’m grateful for everything you do and are. I’m deeply grateful for your presence. Happy Anniversary, my love.

A backyard tale

Once upon a time, a young couple bought their first home. They had a baby on the way, and a little dog too, and after eight years of apartment living, it was time to move.

The home they purchased was in an ideal location–close to work, the airport and public transit. It was just their style–cute and cozy with modern updates. Their neighbors were friendly; their neighborhood was picturesque. Everything seemed perfect, except for one tiny detail: their new home came with a lush backyard garden.

Expertly manicured shrubbery, lively wildflowers, spindly tall grass, blooming peonies and healthy hydrangeas surrounded a small backyard patio. The back right corner of the lot featured some potted plants, flowers growing up lattices and a sizable Japanese maple. Across the lot was a vegetable garden with kale, spinach and green tomatoes. But the pinnacle of it all was an 800 gallon pond, complete with a cascading waterfall, lily pads and five koi fish. It was, by all accounts, a hidden oasis in the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Or so it seemed.

Even though others assured them their beautiful new backyard was “actually low-maintenance,” the young couple was skeptical. In fact, when they purchased the home, their first concern was how their new pets would survive another Chicago winter under their novice care. Furthermore, they worried how they’d manage such a yard come summer, with a new baby and two full-time jobs to juggle. One of them was already convinced they should sell the koi, tear out the pond and replace everything with sod.

Had they made a huge mistake? Would the koi survive the winter? Only time would tell.

Year one: Welcome to the jungle

That was nearly two years ago, and yes, that darling, naive couple was us. My husband Jay and I found our first home in August 2016, closing on it Halloween Day.

There’s usually something on which you compromise when you buy a home, and for us, it was the backyard garden. Neither of us pictured ever owning such a space nor did we have much gardening experience. We loved everything else about the place, and we knew, theoretically, if the backyard didn’t work we could always change it.

At first, everything went OK. My husband read up on koi care, winterized the pond, and the fish survived their first winter with us. On January 30, I gave birth to our son, Jack, and we began the lifelong adventure that is parenthood.

pond with koi at winter — *Koi pond, winter 2017*

We survived three months caring for Jack, and when spring arrived, Jay thought he’d give the garden a try. I was already back to work, and with breastfeeding our son, my free time was limited. I was too overwhelmed to help with the garden, and, since Jay resumed traveling for work, he could only work in the garden when he was home.

Weeks passed. Day by day, plants grew taller, bushes grew wider, weeds sprung up in the vegetable garden bed and by the middle of July, we found ourselves the unwitting owners of a backyard jungle, complete with a hidden koi pond.

The prior homeowners had always participated in our neighborhood garden walk, so when our neighbors suggested we consider doing the same it took everything in our power not to break down and laugh until we cried.

Although Jay kept feeding the koi, I avoided the backyard whenever I could, I was so embarrassed by its demise. I began parking on the street rather than in our backyard garage to steer clear of the overgrown plants and thriving bug life.

You know that expression, the grass is always greener on the other side? This was literally true for us. On either side of our lot stood our neighbors’ basic, green grassy backyards and I coveted them. Oh, how I coveted them. I fantasized about green, grassy lawn — no crazy weeds, no scary bugs and safe space for our dog and son to play. I lamented our situation — caused by our own inability to act — and wished someone, anyone would just swoop in and save us from this mess. I vacillated from feeling ashamed and embarrassed to completely apathetic.

Mercifully the remaining summer weeks passed quickly and the garden began to wilt away that fall. Eventually my husband braved the backyard to cut away weeds and tall grass and to prepare the pond for another winter.

As the seasons changed, my heart felt a little lighter, less worried about our crazy backyard. When snow fell for the first time, I felt giddy. Finally our yard looked like all the others! We vowed to do something about it next summer, to hire contractors to create the backyard we always wanted — a basic plot of green lawn.

Year two: The tipping point

In the margin of my 2018 planner, I wrote: Call contractors this spring. And in March, I promptly began bugging my husband about it. Jay, an engineer, is the one in our marriage who researches everything; he made spreadsheets comparing prices for our first car, spreadsheets charting our son’s sleep, etc. Naturally I assumed he would quickly and easily complete this assignment, but he repeatedly put it off. His inaction (and my own) was exhausting. Eventually we had one contractor we weren’t completely happy with, then the project stalled.

I wish I could say that this summer was different. It was different, in ways I’m not ready to share here, but in other ways it was identical. We couldn’t make time to tend our garden. Come July, the yard looked eerily similar — if not more overgrown — and I was parking in the street again, ashamed of our jungle backyard.

Late that month, on a particularly stressful night, I was doing a few sun salutations in the sun room after putting our son to bed. Out of the corner of my eye I spied movement in the backyard, but continued flowing. Inhale upward facing dog; exhale downward facing dog . . .

Wait, was that a racoon in the pond?

I stopped, mid-downward dog, and rushed to the window as a large, agile racoon slipped over the waterfall and out of our pond, closely followed by another racoon, and another, and another… I counted a total of four large invaders. I stared, breathlessly, as they romped through our backyard and on to our neighbors. Something in me snapped.

I stalked into our bedroom. “A racoon gang just took a dip in our pond,” I declared.

My husband, who was half asleep in bed the dog, sat up. “What?”

“You heard me. A gang of racoons,” I said. “This backyard is out of control. I’m calling the contractor tomorrow.”

The next day, I called the contractor. When we spoke, I was surprised to learn his team could come out as soon as the next Monday. I had a work trip to Boston, but my husband and son would be home sowe decided to move ahead. With one simple call, it was booked. WE WERE GETTING A NEW BACKYARD!

Finally, a new backyard

That weekend, Jay scrambled to call a local fish store and found a home for the koi, and I flew out for my trip. While in Boston I received a series of texts from my husband, mostly pictures:

weeds — *Backyard, August 2018 (It’s a jungle out there.)*

Staring at out bulldozed backyard covered in dirt, my heart burst with delight.

Was the change I’d so desperately wanted really that simple? All the hours I spent agonizing over the inconvenience of it all, what the neighbors might think and my own shortcomings could have been applied to solving this problem earlier. I was relieved the contractors finished so quickly, and a little embarrassed it had taken it so long to get to this point.

I hadn’t been there to see our contractor’s team in action but reports from the home front indicated it was a big, dirty job. (And we have a hefty bill to prove it.)

The next image my husband texted was surreal: a basic, green grassy backyard — no koi, no tall grass, no weeds, no bushes. Just lawn, a sight for sore eyes.

Finally our son and dog could use the backyard for playing. Finally I could walk through the backyard unashamed, and park in the garage again. In a summer marked by family hardship, this new backyard was giving me life. I couldn’t wait to get home and see it for myself.

The night I arrived home from my work trip, I embraced my family, put my son to bed and walked straight into the sun room. As I looked out the window, I almost cried: there, basking in the moonlight, was our new backyard.

***

Have you ever had an ongoing home project like this one that drove you crazy? Tell me in the comments.