Wendy and I went to a marriage weekend with Zoë and Evan this weekend.
They are just barely through their first year.
But we are never past the point of needing to be reminded of things that we have dealt with and then grown past. Because these little foxes have a way of creeping back into the vineyard, and spoiling the vines.
One thing that was discussed was the problem of having expectations of what this marriage would be like according to our premarriage experiences.
My mind took off.
Later in the day, I asked Wendy, “Do you remember when I started helping you cook dinner? I know I didn’t at first, in the early days, but I honestly can’t remember when that changed.”
She couldn’t either.
When I was a kid (I was really self-absorbed) dinner was on the table when we heard the call, “Supper is ready!” That’s just how it was. We didn’t go into the kitchen, pick up a plate, spoon portions onto our plate, get a glass, pour milk, carry it to the table, sit down and eat.
We came to the table, sat down, and, after Dad prayed, ate.
I don’t even remember ever getting seconds. Or even asking for seconds.
Maybe that is why I was such a glutton at family reunions.
But, I never questioned the system.
Mom cooked dinner.
Dad cooked breakfast.
And when I asked Dad to cook my eggs a certain way, and to cook me two extra pieces of bacon for my traditional bacon sandwich school lunch, he always did. I don’t have any memory of how he handled my two brothers’ and my sister’s breakfast.
I told you, I was self-absorbed.
So, I probably carried that expectation into the marriage.
We never discussed it! I don’t remember when it changed, but, looking back, I guess I rolled with it.
I do remember one time, in the very early days with Wendy, asking what we were having for dinner.
She told me.
“Uhmmm, I’m not sure I like that,” I said.
Without hesitation or even looking my way, she said, “Well, that’s what we are having.”
I learned a very valuable lesson that day.
Turns out she is a very good cook.
Also turns out, I am not a bad sous chef.
Although, neither of us can remember when that happened.
There was the time I tried to cook dinner for her on Mother’s Day one year.
But…that is another story.