We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you a glimpse into the rest of our lives during this transitional time.

Do you really want to know what has been taking up most of my time lately?

Sitting in bed.

You see, I have this odd personality that is split between Type A and Type B.  And you want to know something really, really odd?  I only get things done when I’m in Type B mode.

When I’m in Type B mode, I can stay focused on my priorities.  I put on some music and we get to work.  The days are productive, the moving boxes get packed, the apartment gets into order.

http://queensmama.files.wordpress.com/2009/07/moving-boxes.jpg

But when I’m in Type A mode, I start to freak out.  My organization levels reach irrational proportions.  As in, I can’t stand to work on putting the books in boxes because it is driving me crazy that all of our winter shoes are scattered over the foyer and I don’t yet have boxes for all of those, and I have to figure out that first before I can deal with these books, but then I have to decide whether to keep the shoe rack and do I think that it will work in our new house?, but then, we’re going to have less income without me working full time and I don’t know if I’ll have the five dollars to buy a new shoe rack, and oh my goodness maybe I shouldn’t have thrown out that half a bag of old flour because maybe I won’t have any money to buy any flour when we get out there and what if we STARVE while living in our new big, beautiful home???!!!!  WE’RE GOING TO DIE, I TELL YOU!!!!

Type A mode usually appears the second I walk in the door from work Monday – Thursday.  So I stand in the foyer, drop my purse, and fret about whether we really can have eggs for dinner because I’ve got to get the frying pan packed up and…

Andy has brutally learned the warning signs of a Type A episode over this past month of moving drama.  So usually before I can get beyond the frying pan, he has forcibly plopped me into bed with a grilled cheese sandwich and told me to stay put.  Then he goes and actually gets things done during the evening.  Important things that I lose sight of in the face of my packing freak-out sessions.  Like reading the house contracts.  Like renting a moving truck.  Like paying the bills.

He usually comes back later to find me conked out or in a coma in front of another Arrested Development episode.  The Bluth family’s insanity makes my life seem quite peaceful.  It calms me.

Then Andy fixes me a bowl of ice cream.  He’s incredible.

Does anyone else out there have these crazy mood swings?  Is it going to be this nuts moving into a new place, or just moving out?  Does anyone else find themselves needing to crawl into bed for an evening just to make their mind take a break?

Andy’s Graduation, originally uploaded by nevershaken.

Yesterday, Andy graduated with his Masters of Divinity. This is, finally, the moment when he can be finished with 21 years of schooling. He’s been working on this degree for three and a half years, while juggling part time work, ministry internships, life, help with cleaning and cooking and, most consuming of all, me.

It’s awesome and I am so proud of him.

During the preparation for the ceremony, one of his friends laid their hand on my arm as I ran by and said “Congratulations to you too, Leah!” Since I work at the institution and am on the graduation administrative team, I naturally assumed he was congratulating me for nearing completion of a successful commencement ceremony. So I laughed and said, “the congratulations are for all of you today!”

He laughed right back and said, “No, no. All of our wives deserve every bit as much – if not more – congratulations for what you’ve done over the last four years for us. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

This young man was not the only one who felt that way. As I moved through the floor after the ceremony, congratulating people and popping photos of my hubby with his friends, nearly everyone either told me congratulations myself, or offered their congratulations to both of us, as a couple.

As I lay in bed that night watching my tired husband sleep, these little congratulations all came back to me. And I felt joy. But my joy didn’t stem from receiving recognition and not having to live in the shadow of my husband. Yesterday, all of my pride resided in him.

What brought me joy was thinking that these people – people who value their spouses so much that they express vocally and proudly that they owe all their education and achievements to them; who love their spouses so much that yesterday was not about themselves, but about THEMselves as a family, a marriage or family unit that worked towards a goal together; who recognize the hard work and sacrifice that their spouses and families put into their education, and are profoundly thankful for it – these are the people who are going to be serving in our churches and campuses and counseling centers. Their ministry will be all the more rich for such humility and love.

And all of that, in turn, just makes me more proud of all of them, and especially my husband. I’m so proud of you, Andy!

It pains me to say it, but I am not going to be a good mom.

The fact is, I just always thought I would.  I’ve got a multitude of younger siblings and I figured out the whole multi-tasking, care-taking, loving, talking thing years ago.  Psh, no problem.  Um, maybe not.

I began to be a little shaken in my certainty on this when I was home visiting a couple of weeks ago.  My Mom had been away for a couple of days when I arrived, so I stepped in to help my Dad and other siblings with taking care of the kids.  No problem.  I got them settled down, cleaned, tucked in, prayed with, to sleep.

Next morning, made sure their beds were made, made sure they had breakfast and were comfortable.  Then, while jotting down a grocery list on the phone with my Mom, my eight year old sister, B, walked into the room in her jammies.

“B, do you want to go shopping with me and Andy?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, go get dressed.”

A moment later, B reenters, wearing old sweats and her jammies shirt.
“B, let’s get you some jeans.”
“I don’t want to go, my throat and tummy hurt.”
“Ok…” Leah assumes here that B just misses her Mom and wants attention. ”Well, how about if I get  you a McDonald’s milkshake while we’re out to make your throat feel better?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, go get dressed.”

A few minutes later, Leah finds B pulling clothes aimlessly out of her drawers.
“B, did you find some jeans?”
“I don’t want to have to wear jeans!  My tummy hurts!  I don’t want to go.”  B bursts into tears.
“Okay, B, it’s okay honey” Leah gives lots of hugs and kisses. “Why don’t you just stay here, and I’ll have J get you some good things to drink and you can just watch some movies.  Oh, you feel a little warm, hon.  Why don’t you put on some shorts.”

I leave B at home with her brothers on the couch watching some movies, without a second thought.  A few hours later, my Mom arrives home and gives me a call on my cell:

“Leah, B has strep throat.  She had a 102 fever and I’m calling the doctor.”

What?!  I am such a bad sister.  How did I ignore the warmth on her forehead?  She said her throat hurt, why didn’t I call to tell my Mom?  Why didn’t I call the doctor?  Why didn’t I stay home with her?  Why didn’t I get her some tylenol and ice cream?  How could I not know???  And how did my Mom know, after being home for two minutes?

B, who loves me despite the fact that I totally ignored her illness.

My faith in myself as a caretaker was severely shaken.  Severely.  But, undaunted by my recent failures, I proceeded to fail again.

Friday night, Andy approaches me.
“Leah, I feel really sick.”
“Oh, honey, it’s fine.  Why don’t you just get a snack and relax for a while.”
“Okay.”

Saturday afternoon, after lunch with friends:
“Leah, I feel really sick.”
“What’s the matter?”
“My stomach hurts and my throat is really sore, and I feel achy all over.”
“Well, maybe you got a little stomach bug.  It’ll be fine.”

Saturday night, while we are attempting to do some very labor-intensive chores around the living room:
“Leah, I feel really sick.”
“Still your stomach?”
“Well, my throat hurts the worst.  I need to sit down, I can’t work anymore.”
“Oh, can’t you just do a little more?  I’m sure it’s just a little stomach bug.  It’ll go away and you’ll feel better.  Why don’t you get a snack?”

Sunday morning, on our way back from church.
“Leah, I feel really sick.”
“Aw, I’m sorry your bug hasn’t gone away yet.”
“It hurts to swallow and I feel really feverish.”

About two hours later:
“Oh my gosh, Andy, you have strep throat!!!”

The worst part is, this is NOT the first time I’ve glossed over Andy’s sickness.  The below was taken only five months ago.

That’s me, blithe and unnoticing his nasty virus, on the right.  I shouldn’t mention that my sister E, on the left, had mono at the time and was also being forced to play Scrabble.  No, I won’t mention that.

Yes, I am going to be such a success as a Mom (and a wife, for that matter).  Cultures are going to be growing in their throats, their poor little heads will be burning up, their little bodies will be so tired and I’ll just offer them snacks repeatedly and tell them it’s fine and try to make them shop and do chores and stay up late.

Is perception to illness in people innate?  Am I just a failure?  Do you eventually learn to recognize signs?  Or have I failed before I even started?!

My family.  I talk about them a lot.  They were there through everything in my life; as mentors, teachers, role models, friends, checks and balances, mirrors, reality checks and humblers.  My parents were at the hub of the fast-paced exchange of information in our family and did their best to mediate the flow of arguments, frustrations, encouragements, judgments, and praise that flew around the six of us kids like a whirlwind, always creating ample opportunity for togetherness, honesty, and correction.  No one ever had to be alone in a joy or a sorrow; really, to be alone took quite a good deal of secrecy and craftiness.

In all of this, I took for granted how well we understood each other.  Tones, vocabulary, words, phrasing, jokes all slipped and morphed easily as we moved from one family member to another.  I knew her buttons, she knew mine, she knew his soft spots and he knew hers.  We could read each other’s moods by a stance or a hand gesture, a twitch or an eyelash flutter.  Everything we said was calculated, whether it was thoughtless or not.

But isn’t that the way families are?  Spending all your young years growing around each other, shaping and pruning each other?

And then I got married.  And suddenly there was this man who spent 20+ years growing apart from me, in a world that I didn’t understand.  And in my naivete, I thought that the 18 months we spent talking for hours every day would give us the kind of nuanced knowledge of each other that I had with my parents and siblings.

But so often, I find myself unable to comprehend why what I’m saying is not getting through to Andy, even if I run through every arsenal of tone and vocab that I have ever used.  I don’t know why he just raised his eyebrows the way that he did.  I don’t know why that thing just made him laugh, out of the blue.  The more that I think I can predict him, understand him, the more I realize that I don’t – not in the nuanced, deep way – not even despite the fact that we really know each other better than we’ve each ever known anyone else in our lives.

What is the difference between the knowing and the knowing?  How can I know him better and yet less than my family?  How do I learn to know exactly what words to avoid when his eyes flash in that particular way?

I think that what it boils down to is that in marriage, we’re not dealing with people who grew into you, who shared your experiences at five years old.  We’re dealing with an adult who experienced things in their life that you will never even see; or had a set of people shaping them that is, perhaps, completely different from our own and some of which we may never meet.  Only knowing Andy for five years and living with him for three just doesn’t equal that.  But yet, we share something we’ve never shared with anyone else – marriage – and that forms the core of a new, deeper knowing that, ultimately, trumps the other sort.  And time, time will eventually make us equal the other kind of knowing, too.

It’s odd.  It’s odd and fascinating and always enlightening.

I have my own personal sympathy extractor, as Andy can be counted on to give me full attention and emotional support whenever I bring it up.

We call it the double curse.  The double curse that society has inflicted on itself through sin and… the pressures of society that make women need to work.

When God expelled Adam and Eve from the garden, Adam’s curse was to toil and have difficulty working the earth.  Eve would have pain in childbearing, which I extend to also cover all attendant discomforts and unpleasantries associated with the female reproductive system.  Enough said.

But when women, or, most poignantly, ME, have to go to work, we suffer both.

Obviously, it’s just a part of life.  Sometimes, women can’t help but work, sometimes they just have to.  But by golly, it seems just a teensy bit unfair that the husband doesn’t have to take part in the physical aspect of the women’s side of things, as well.