Once Upon an Us

It’s a typical Thursday night. The after-school madness and whirlwind of dinner, baths, and bedtime stories is complete, and finally the house is quiet. I’m snuggled in my corner of the sofa, the aroma of chamomile wafting from a hot cup of tea, my e-reader in my lap. Patrick sits on the other sofa, intently listening to a podcast, his headphones creating a barrier between us. Most evenings, we may sit like this for an hour or more before it’s late enough to get ready for bed.  

Instead of the tension from the week melting away as I get lost in a book, I feel it coiling and restless.

What happened to us? And why am I just now noticing?

When did we become little more than glorified roommates and co-parents?

When was the last time we had an actual conversation? And not just, What’s on the calendar for this week? Or, Are you able to take Collins to her soccer practice on Wednesday?

Have we even kissed each other today?

Somehow, we have fallen into this routine. Going to work. Helping the kids with homework or learning how to roller skate. Acting as chauffeur and short-order chef. Griping about dirty socks left all over the house. And somewhere along the way, our relationship has become a shell of what it once was.

Once upon an us, we were madly, passionately in love. I’d barely walk in the door and he would be kissing me breathless, desperate to have all of me pressed up against all of him. Conversations were easy and intimacy was frequent. We just always “got” each other. Some mornings he would wake me up, barely able to contain his excitement, words spilling from his mouth as soon as my eyes would open, unable to wait a moment longer before talking to me. Some nights, we would stay up for hours, talking about everything and nothing, from deep philosophical questions such as the meaning of life, to silly banter about speeding tickets.

But of course the “in love” feeling rarely lasts. Time marches on and life continues outside of the blissful bubble of new love. Soon, college life turned into working life, and the two of us quickly became the three, four, and five of us. I got lost in motherhood, learning how to breastfeed, potty train, and fight monsters under the bed. And I suppose Patrick got lost in fatherhood and the pressures of providing for our family on top of his very busy job.

Setting my e-reader aside now, I stand up and tap Patrick on the shoulder. After a moment, he looks up and pulls his headphones off. “What’s up?”

“Why don’t we ever talk anymore?” I ask.

“What do you mean? Of course we talk. We’re talking right now,” he answers, lifting an eyebrow.

“Do you ever feel like something is off between us lately?”

“I don’t know. Where is this coming from?”

“If you had to rate our marriage on a scale of 1-10, where would you put us? Because I’m not sure we’re above a 5 right now.”

“Christ, here we go,” he mumbles, shoving a hand through his dark hair.

“I mean, you tell me that you love me. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like you really do anymore. When was the last time we went on a date? It’s been four years since we took a vacation, just us without the kids.”

“What do you want from me, Amber?” he whisper-shouts, trying not to wake up the kids. “I work my ass off for our family. I take care of the yard - have you ever had to use the lawn mower since we moved into this house? I finished the basement that you wanted. I go to the grocery store every week. I get the kids set-up with their homework before you get home from work. I feel like you are so ungrateful and never notice the things that I do.”

Patrick stands abruptly from the couch, grabs his phone, and stalks downstairs into the basement, slamming the door behind him.

I sigh. That’s not at all how I wanted that to go. Why has it become so hard to communicate with each other?

***

“Can I ask you something?” I ask Kristin, one of my close friends, as we wait for the rest of our book club to join us.

“Of course! What’s up?” she responds, as the waitress hands her a margarita.

I play with the stem of my wine glass, as I ask, “How often do you and Mike have sex?”

She swirls her straw in her drink, and tilts her head, thinking. “Probably two to three times per week. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. Why do you ask?”

I groan, putting my face in my hands. “Now I feel terrible.”

Kristin pulls my hands down, looking at me with concern. “What’s going on?”

“Patrick and I got into a fight last night. Lately I just feel like we aren’t connecting. And maybe we haven’t been for a long time, and I never noticed. I was trying to remember the last time we had sex, and I honestly can’t remember. What does that say about me as a wife? About our relationship?”

“Oh, sweetie. Every relationship goes through dry spells. I’m sure you guys will find your way again.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like we barely know each other anymore. And if I try to talk to him about it, he bristles and gets defensive. I don’t know how to reach him.”

We sit in silence for a moment. Suddenly, her face brightens and she says, “Have you ever read the book The Five Love Languages? Mike and I had to read it for our marriage prep when we were engaged, and I always found the concept fascinating.”

“I’ve never heard of it. What are the five love languages?”

“Words of affirmation, quality time, gift giving, acts of service, and physical touch. Basically, the book talks about how we all show and feel love the most in a certain “language”, and sometimes when couples are not connecting, it’s because they aren’t loving each other in the language their spouse needs. You need to read it! Maybe it could help you.”

“Ok. I’ll have to check it out.”

***

I close the book and sit back. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what my love language is. But just to be sure, I open the book up again and take the quiz in the back.  

A few minutes later, it’s confirmed. My love language is definitely quality time. I know this about myself. I always feel most connected to Patrick when we are spending time together, having quality conversations, experiencing moments, going for walks, even just taking time out of our day to be in tune with each other.

I’m not sure which one is Patrick’s. I think it could be words of affirmation or physical touch, but honestly I really don’t know. I’d love to ask Patrick to read the book and take the quiz as well, but he’s been stiff and cold around me all weekend. We haven’t really talked about what happened the other night, and I don’t know how to even bring it up without getting into another argument.

If you would’ve shown me this cameo of our life together 15 years ago, I would have laughed. Told you, No way! Patrick and I will never become those people.

And I know with certainty, this is not what I want for us. I know we are better than this.  

My mind keeps circulating around something I read in the book earlier. Love is a choice. We choose to love our partner in the language they need. In the language they understand.

As I sit at the kitchen island, drinking my glass of shiraz, an idea formulates. What if I try showing Patrick love in each of the love languages and see how he responds? Each week, I can choose one of the love languages and pick some ideas from the book to use.

Draining the dregs from my glass, I smile.

***

Words of Affirmation

“You look handsome today,” I say shyly, looking at my husband in his light blue shirt and tie. And as my eyes continue to rove over his body, I can’t help but wonder, When was the last time I really looked at him? Even approaching 40, his body is tight and sinewy. His hair is still full and dark, shorter on the sides, the top effortlessly styled, with white starting to pepper the temples. His beard is full and neatly trimmed.

After buckling his belt, he turns his chocolate brown eyes to mine, mild confusion playing across his features. Finally, he responds, “Thanks. You look nice too.” He grabs his phone and walks out of the bathroom.

Ok, I just need some practice. One compliment per day. That should be pretty easy. The hardest part of this week will be the love letter I’m planning to write and give to him on Thursday night.

Tuesday, I tell him he’s a great cook after taking a bite of the steak dinner he made.

Wednesday, I thank him for working so hard for our family. Bonus points for telling the kids that their dad is a superhero.  

But by Thursday night, I’m feeling slightly dejected. I think the compliments have warmed him a little, but I still don’t feel that connection I was hoping to feel. I even tried sending him text messages throughout the day, affirming how he is a great husband and offering other compliments. But nothing seemed to really work.

Now, as we are settling on the sofas after putting the kids to bed, my heart pounding, my palms sweating, I work up the nerve to interrupt his podcast.

“I have something I wanted to give you,” I say, handing him my letter, rushing to add, “You don’t have to read it right now if you don’t want to.”

Patrick looks at me, looks at the letter. He opens it, scans it silently. Glancing over at me, scrunching his brow with a question in his eyes, he says, “I love you too, Amber.” He then sets the letter beside him and turns his podcast back on.

Ok, it’s official. Words are not enough for Patrick.

Quality Time

“Let’s go for a walk!” I say Sunday evening after dinner.

“Ok. Let me grab my shoes,” Patrick responds.

When we get outside, before he has a chance to pop his earbuds in, I quickly blurt out any question I can think of, “Who was your favorite teacher in school?”

“Uh. What?” he looks at me with confusion, brow scrunched, eyes squinting.

I’m sure I sound like a crazy person. The book suggested an activity where you review your history, picking five questions to ask each other. Maybe I should’ve led with that…

“I just thought it would be fun to get to know each other more. Or again, I suppose. Just something silly.”

“Ok, well, I might need to think about that one.” He pops his earbuds in. Podcast 1, Amber 0.

Monday night, I tell him I want to watch a show with him. His choice! (He knows I hate shows like Game of Thrones, but I grit my teeth through one whole episode.)

Tuesday, I ask him to make a list of five activities he would enjoy doing with me. He gives me two ideas (better than none!). One idea is to go to a local AAA baseball game. I buy tickets for us to go to the game on Thursday night.

Wednesday night, instead of bringing my e-reader to the sofa, I sit next to him on the sofa and ask him about his day. We actually have a nice conversation, him telling me about a big project he is working on and sharing his excitement.

I’m feeling pretty good by Thursday night. The baseball game is a blast. But something still seems to be missing. I had a lot of fun. But I don’t see that same sparkle in Patrick’s eye that I remember from earlier in our marriage.

Gift Giving

I know I’m going to struggle this week. I’m notoriously a bad gift giver, particularly when it comes to my husband. Birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries - I honestly never know what to get him. This week is going to be hell. But I’m committed to giving him a small gift every day this week. Here goes nothing.

On Monday, I give him a bonsai tree to take to work. He gives me a quizzical look when I hand it over, bumbling through my explanation of what the tree is for.

On Tuesday, I get up extra early and race home to give him a specialty coffee from the coffee shop we love in town. He gives me a genuine smile and hug for that effort!

On Wednesday, I pack a bag of homemade oatmeal chocolate chip cookies in his lunch bag. He sends me a text at lunch with a picture of him taking a bite out of one.

When Thursday night rolls around, I bring out a pair of 49ers socks for him to wear for the game on Sunday.  

He takes the socks and looks up at me, a smirk lifting his beautiful lips. “Amber, what in the hell is going on?” he asks.

I laugh and say, “Just a little experiment.”

It’s clear gift giving is not Patrick’s love language.

Acts of Service

Ok, so I know I’m being cynical, but honestly I feel like I already do all of these “acts of service” already. Doing the laundry. Cooking dinner. Cleaning the house. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. But maybe if I put a happy face on instead of grumbling through the chores, it will make a difference. Right?

On Sunday, I run outside after church and jump on the lawn mower. I’m embarrassed to say it takes several google searches to figure out how to start it. I may mow through a couple flower beds as I get used to the maneuverability, but I think I finally get the hang of it.  

Once I come inside, Patrick and the kids are laughing as they watch a video of me on his phone. He looks up, his eyes twinkling as he says, “I think you forgot to do the edging.”

I smack him on the arm and flip him the bird as I head into our room to shower. Ok, I’ll try to do better tomorrow with a smile.

On Monday, I beat Patrick home from work, and enlist the kids to help me clean the house. When he walks inside, we yell, “Surprise! We love you!”  

He smiles, and says, “The house looks great. Thanks!”

On Tuesday, I run to the grocery store after work.

On Wednesday, I wash his car after dinner and leave a sign on it, To Patrick, with love.

By Thursday night, I’m exhausted but looking for a chore to do. Patrick pulls me down on the couch next to him and says, “Please stop. You’re driving me insane with this incessant busyness. Just take a break!”

Four down, one to go.

Physical Touch

I’m almost certain this is Patrick’s love language. But a part of me is really nervous. What if this was all for nothing? What if we really can’t get back to a place where we feel connected?

On Sunday night, I sit next to Patrick on the sofa and move his arm so that I can snuggle up close to his chest. He looks down at me, and then wraps his arm around my shoulder. A little while later, I feel him kiss the top of my head. We sit like that, together, me reading and him listening to his podcast. It feels good.

On Monday morning, I brush my hand along his lower back as I make my way past him to the keurig. I give him a long hug in front of the kids before he leaves, rubbing his back with my hand as I tell him to have a good day. He squeezes me tighter.

When he comes home from work on Tuesday, I run to the back door and give him a kiss as soon as he walks in the house. I can tell I’ve caught him by surprise at first, as he almost freezes as my lips touch his. But then, his lips soften and his arm snakes around my lower back, pulling me closer as he deepens the kiss and catches my lower lip between his teeth. When we pull apart, he gives me a dazed expression, which makes me smile.

On Wednesday, I come up behind him at the kitchen table and give his shoulders and neck a quick massage. He looks up at me and smiles, saying, “That feels amazing. Thank you.”

By Thursday night, I’m positive I’ve found his love language. Before I even make it down the stairs after putting the kids to bed, Patrick hauls me off the steps and lifts me into his arms, his mouth crashing down on mine. Carrying me to our bedroom, my legs wrapped around his hips, he says through kisses, “I’ve missed this. This kind of connection between us.”

When he lays me on the bed, working his lips to my neck, I sigh, “Physical touch is your love language. I’m so sorry it took me so long to figure it out.”

He pauses, his eyes finding mine. “Is that what you’ve been doing over the last few weeks? Figuring out my love language?”

I nod and laugh.

“What’s your love language?” he asks as he starts peppering my jaw with light kisses.

“Quality time,” I answer.

As his lips move to my ear, he whispers, “I can’t wait to learn how to love you in your language too.”

*Based on The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman