I found this draft buried a few pages deep under other drafts and I loved it enough to share it…Enjoy.
December 2014
Sunday morning. Chris at the kitchen sink, washing the pots and pans, loading the dishwasher. I’m preparing frozen hash browns to go in the preheated oven. The stone pan I need is beneath the stove, a kitchen accessory location I’ve had to reconsider since the third trimester and the return of that old familiar “I’m an orbiting planet” feeling. There isn’t much space between the stove and the kitchen table…especially with four kids having their way around the place. Now add me hovering in a struggling (that stoneware is some heavy sh*#) bent forward position. I’m asking for it every time I invert the upper portion of my top heavy body at this point. And once I end up on the floor, I might stay down a while…scrub a cupboard stain or collect some stray cheerios. Needless to say, once I’m bent over, I’m going to stay that way until I’ve accomplished whatever it is I’ve set out to do, down there, below my waist. So basically it can be a real set back…the stoneware location. While bent forward, wrestling pans and maneuvering around my drastically pronounced front bump, I hardly budge as I feel Chris urgently trying to squeeze between 3 and half feet of pregnant, contorted road block and the big old harvest table. I’m naturally knocked forward a bit as he makes a way for himself to get to the trashcan directly on the other side of me. It was gentle enough. If I had to choose a way to be knocked headfirst into my kitchen oven, it would be that way. Urgently and abrupt while still seeming like it could have been a lot worse. I get the baking pan loose and he reaches the garbage can and the world is upright again and the thick, bacon scented air of the kitchen fills with the sound of Chris’ voice, apologizing for nearly knocking his bent over, pregnant wife down in her own kitchen. “Sorry about that. I had a handful of crap from the sink drain in my hand and it was dripping and I was trying to get to the garbage can.” He didn’t need to explain. Anyone like us, who is primitive enough to NOT have a garbage disposal in their kitchen sink knows well what that handful of wet noodles and oats and meat bits and ricecrispies and diced tomatoes and bag twisties feels like. Perhaps you understand the feeling of a soggy cheerio attempting escape through your thumb and index finger. There is a sense of urgency to complete this specific kitchen chore with finesse and efficiancy and accuracy. I tell him not to worry about it. I know what that’s about. You don’t want that handful longer than you have to have it. You won’t answer the door holding that stuff, or even take one more breath while holding it. Its an urgent matter. He receives my complete understanding. I get back to the hashbrown task. Precise placement…one hash brown after another. And then comes one of those moments of contemplative silence that has come to be one of the defining qualities of our marriage. It is the moment right before someone is about to be honest. They have thought about what the outcome of their candid confession may be, they have calculated any cost and have made their decision. He is facing out the window, still diligently scouring pots. “It actually dripped all over your back.” A moment… “Oh.” I say. “Good.” Another moment… And then the refreshing wind of laughter that has surprised us more times than we can count. After ten years, I’m proud to say that this too is another defining characteristic of our marriage. Through my two shirts and my cardigan I never felt the grotesque moisture and I never asked if it looked like I needed to change my sweater. We fed the masses and hurried off to church and there we sat, his arm around me…resting in the runoff from the bottom of our kitchen drain. And I’d never loved him more. Together we have created a life that results in a drain full of food slime and hair and garbage…and sometimes, one of us is going to wear some of it on our back. True love. Sigh.
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