Marriage is such a funny thing. Each one is different and every couple finds their own unique equilibrium. Making a home and a life with someone means discovering each other’s habits and hang-ups. For example, I won’t set the alarm clock for an even number. No real reason for this neurotic behavior, but I’m adamant about it. Willis, on the other hand, has some sort of mental block that won’t allow him to talk on the phone to order take out. He’s a highly educated man, but he finds it somehow difficult to call in an order for Chinese food. The challenge is to figure out which little bits of weirdness are cute or funny, which are tolerable and which ones are deal breakers.
Our front door, like yours most likely, has two key holes, one for the regular latch and one for the dead bolt. A few months back, at the end of a long, trying work day, I staggered up the front steps carrying a car seat, a pack of diapers, a diaper bag, a laptop bag and my purse. I wanted nothing more than to get inside, put all this junk down and hug my husband. I fumbled for my keys, praying that I wouldn’t drop them. I lifted the arm with the baby hanging on it and pushed the key into the hole. Sweet rest was just moments away. I turned the key and pushed. The door didn’t move. The dead bolt was locked.
I muttered obscenities like Yosemite Sam as I unlocked the top lock and dragged myself and all my crap inside. “Hi babe,” he said innocently. Through gritted teeth, I said as calmly as I could muster, “Will you please not lock me out?” “Oh. Sorry about that.” Deep breath. No harm done. Move on.
The next day was an exact replay. He did it again. And the next day – same thing! Stop locking me out! Off and on for the next several weeks, we replayed this ridiculous scene with me getting more and more annoyed each time. Until one afternoon, I sat on the side of the bed, closed my eyes and decided that I had lost touch with my true priorities. The happiness of coming home to him was getting screwed up because of the stupid lock.
I don’t want to be his shrew wife who walks through the door bitching at him. I want him to be happy when he hears me pull into the driveway. And simple as that, I acknowledged that he is hard wired to protect us by locking the door. There isn’t an ounce of malice in this act. In fact, when he comes home with G each afternoon, he’s dealing with his own whirlwind.
So, I still haul Pinky and ten tons of stuff from the car each afternoon. But now, I automatically put the key in the top lock first. Sometimes it’s locked, sometimes it’s not, but it no longer matters. What matters is that he comes to meet me at the door, gives me a kiss and says, “Hi sweets. How was your day?” Harmony restored.
