Perfect Moment

When I got home from work on Friday, my husband huried out the front door and met me in the driveway. He was excited, like a little boy, and I couldn’t help but smile, wondering what was he was up to.

“I have something to show you, ” he told me.

He led me to the side of our yard, and there was a beautiful potted rose there, brilliant yellow blooms accented with vivid orange, like a flame. He told me it was an early birthday present.

“I love it!” And I did. The flowers were stunning. I adore roses. I was already picturing it in various spots in the garden.

He looked serious suddenly and turned to me. “I want to tell you why I got this particular one.”

He gestured to the tag on the pot. “It’s called a Perfect Moment rose,” he told me, “and as soon as I saw that, I wanted to get it for you, because the most perfect moment of my life is when I met you.”

What do you say to that? My heart swelled. I felt so completely loved, overwhelmed with my emotions. I couldn’t come up with anything to say except “I love you.” I hope he knows how very much I do.

It is, beyond a doubt, the very best birthday gift I have ever received. I feel lucky. Loved. Grateful. Happy. Because he is definitely my perfect moment, too.

Rosa ‘Perfect Moment’

Yard Work

When a co-worker asked me how my weekend was, I said I did a lot of yard work. He cringed and looked sympathetic, making a face like it must have been a rough way to spend two days.

Not at all. Now, I won’t lie: it was a lot of work. My husband and I divided and conquered by working on different projects at the same time, and we were in the yard a few hours on Saturday. It was a beautiful day, but it didn’t take long for both of us to get quite sweaty, and the sun’s heat became draining.

I pulled weeds and cleared fall leaves and old mulch from two flower beds in the back yard. The longer I was at it, the slower I got, as fatigue set in deeper and deeper. I was determined to finish both beds, but after a few hours, I was dragging. Bags of mulch that I tossed around earlier now felt like they weighed a ton. I was contemplating getting the wheelbarrow to assist with fetching the next bag when, like he read my mind, my husband came around the corner of the house, a bag of mulch in his arms, and not only placed it next to my flower bed, but ripped it open and started spreading mulch in the empty spots.

We worked a bit longer, finished the flower bed, then swept the walkway between the two flower beds and put our tools away. I went inside to get some ice water, then we sat on the front porch together.

We were sweaty. We were streaked with dirt. Exhausted. Breathless. But we were so happy.

From our porch, we can see the roses in our front flower bed, the potted plants lining our front walkway, our oak tree with a swing painted blue to match the house. We passed the water back and forth while we caught our breath, and we talked about what we had gotten done, what we still wanted to do, even how some of the neighbors have started copying parts of our yard. (We’ll take it as a compliment.)

My husband told me that he remembered telling his parents once that he wanted what they had. They adored each other, worked side by side for everything they had, supported each other, and were a true team. After a few strike outs, we finally found that when we discovered each other.

All that manual labor worked up an appetite, so we headed inside for much-needed showers before date night. After being sweaty and dirty for most of the day, I wanted to dress up a bit for dinner. I spent some extra time on my make-up, tried wearing my hair just a little bit differently than I usually do, and wore a nice outfit, not just jeans.

As we were walking across the parking lot together later, my husband told me I looked nice. Then he said, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever been with.”

I hadn’t felt particularly beautiful earlier, drenched in sweat, streaked with dirt, as I bent and yanked and toiled away in the flower beds. But walking beside him right then, hand in hand, the way he looked at me, I couldn’t help but smile and feel absolutely wonderful, like no one else existed but him and me.

As we washed dishes and cleaned up after dinner last night, he said, “The problem with good weekends is that eventually they are over.” We joked about work being so inconvenient, but it’s true! We have so much we want to work on at home, both house projects and personal hobbies, that the work week just feels like an unwelcome intrusion.

I will try to focus on the bright side, though, and stay positive. After all, isn’t the work week just five days for me to plan and look forward to our next weekend?

Can I Blame Her?

There are less than two months left of this school year. After helping my husband raise four kids for so long, it seems unreal that monitoring grades, asking about missed assignments, emailing teachers, and following school calendars are rapidly drawing to a close.

My youngest stepchild is a senior this year. The kids have always been my husband’s ex-wife’s built-in mechanism for forcing contact with him, and she seems to be acutely aware that the sun is setting on her long-trusted gimmick.

Recently, out of the blue, my husband was invited to dinner with my youngest stepchild, and oddly, with Psycho. Mind you, for 17 years, Psycho has made a career out of militantly withholding information from my husband, coercing the kids to lie to him and hide things from him, requiring an act of Congress for the kids to spend any time with him, and badmouthing us like she gets paid for each ridiculous, jealous rumor she concocts, yet now we are to believe she has spontaneously sprouted basic thoughtfulness and manners…yeah, nope.

Could it be any more obvious? Her days of extorting contact by using the kids are dwindling, and she is desperately flinging out anything she can to beg for scraps of attention before that window slams shut.

I know my husband. He will go, to be with his daughter. He will joke around, put everyone at ease, make everyone laugh, include everyone, so no one feels left out.

And I know Psycho. If he smiles, laughs, or casts even one casual comment in her general direction, she will greedily lap it up like a stray dog slobbering over wayward crumbs. Her narcissistic delusions will ratchet up to full blast, convincing herself of covert meaning where there is none.

My husband is nice to everyone. But after being disappointed and disgusted by Psycho for so long, he interacts with her much the same way he does a stranger in a store or someone randomly passing by on the sidewalk: generic politeness. That is all she warrants (and more than she deserves), by her own choices and actions.

As the final day of the school year approaches, I anticipate there will be even more of these calculated and hopeful invitations, strategically presented as can’t-miss father-daughter moments, with Psycho just coincidentally and inexplicably tagging along, tail and tongue wagging with eager delight. She knows my husband will do anything for his kids, and she will shamelessly milk that dry to her own advantage.

My youngest stepdaughter was quite little when I first met my husband. Here she is, ready to graduate high school, and Psycho obstinately, absolutely refuses to move on and get a life.

The fact is, I realized, Psycho can’t move on. All these years later, and she has nothing to show for it but a string of annihilated relationships, a ratty borrowed trailer, even more desiccated furrows in her moth-eaten leather-flesh, and a pitiable existence, clinging to the kids’ achievements for attention because she doesn’t have any accomplishments of her own. Every breathing creature in the tri-state area is comically aware of her pestiferous reputation, her classlessness, and her attention-whoring instability, so she needs airfare and chloroform to rustle up any semblance of a viable dating pool. Where can she possibly sink from there, besides the grave or an asylum?

I can’t fault her for clinging to my husband, actually. He loves his children and is a tremendous father. He’s an adoring husband. For all of our many and indisputable differences, this is one thing that Psycho, despite herself, and I apparently agree upon: my husband is a damn good guy.

I suppose I can charitably spare a dinner or two. Let Psycho pretend what she pleases. I can graciously indulge her puerile games and adolescent fantasies. It’s sad that she still uses the kids this way, but let’s get real, she was never in danger of being mistaken for even a passably decent mother, and this is obviously the only way she can con anyone into passing time with her. Maybe she can manage to corral her crazy just enough for my husband and stepdaughter to at least enjoy some time together. While Psycho’s ego, delusions, and selfishness leave no room for consideration of anyone else, least of all the kids, my husband never forgets what truly matters. Can I blame her, then, for desperately–yet so futilely–missing him?

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