The Seven Year Glitch

Today is a special day: Seven years married to the man of my dreams. I love Doug so much I could die, and our anniversary is second only to Christmas as my favorite time of the year.

This was also a banner year for us: our first full year as parents, a new job for Doug, my choice to quit working, a new church, a miscarriage, and a general sense of victory that we survived.

So, last night, our celebration night, was supposed to be PERFECT. Majestic. Surreal. Laughter and flirting and the clinking of glasses while we relished in the low glow of candlelight, indulging in Mastro’s Butter Cake. We DESERVED to be dazzled and dined. Right?!

Plus, the number seven symbolizes perfection. The Bible says so.

Bracing ourselves for mind-blowing romance, I curled my hair and wore a new dress; Doug wore cologne and said, “Mom’s bringing sexy back!!!!” Things were off to a sizzling start.

It might be noted that I RARELY curl my hair and that I take dresses VERY seriously, especially when they are new.

My parents arrived to watch Emerson, and we hit the road and headed to dinner. The evening was looking bright.

Then, around the time they dropped that divine bread basket on our table at Mastro’s, Doug started looking green. Like a cross between Kermit the frog and Tiffany’s blue. Not exactly the context of Tiffany’s you hope for when it’s your anniversary, but I still rattled off my typical questions, bubbling like sweet white wine and ignoring that Doug kept looking more amphibian.

What was your favorite memory from year number seven?! How do you think we’ve grown since our last anniversary?! What do you think about adopting a baby one day?! Where do you think we’ll be when we’re 75?!

Doug usually shares in or even outshines my enthusiasm, but his answers were flat and clipped, his eye contact lacking. This made me sad, because I’m a girl, and strong interest and eye contact are important to girls, even when you’re seven years married.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “You aren’t very talkative tonight.”

“I don’t feel so good, babe,” said the very green man. “I think I might have the flu.”

The flu. Ha! I scoffed in my head. You’re not allowed to have the flu on our ANNIVERSARY. I don’t care if you’re the shade of the salad we’re eating.

“You’re fine!” said the sympathetic wife.

“Well, I kind of have the chills,” said Gumby.

The Horrible Night continued. Looking more like our sautéed spinach every minute, Doug poked weakly at his bone-in rib-eye, while I kept trying to salvage the date.

“Let’s go to the movies after this!!!” said the selfish woman.

“I don’t think I can go to the movies,” said the sickly gentleman. “I really don’t feel so good.”

Still wrapped up very tightly in my own massively failing expectations, I was getting mad. He’s faking it! He’s just exhausted because I was at a women’s retreat all weekend, and he’s clearly not as equipped as Super Mom over here at handling our crazy toddler. Get it together, Doug! This is OUR NIGHT! Well, let’s be accurate, it’s MY NIGHT!!!!

I finally stopped talking altogether, and dessert, at last, arrived. When I’m angry, I do this super mature and incredibly helpful thing called quietly withdrawing into myself in passive aggression. I ate some Butter Cake all by myself, without even raving about its glory, which officially makes this the most depressing sentence I’ve ever written.

Of course, Doug never fails to be the sweetest. “I’m so sorry I’m ruining our night, sweetheart! I’m so sick! I wish I was feeling better. I know anniversaries mean so much to you.”

“It’s fine.” Translation: You totally ruined our night! How could you be SICK, you jerk! This night is the freaking WORST! “Let’s get the check. I’ll drive home.” P.S. NO GIRL wants to drive home from her own anniversary dinner!!!

We drove through Laguna Canyon in virtual silence while Doug dozed off and I radiated frustration from my side of the car. But then, as I looked over at him reclined in the passenger’s seat, I had major flashbacks—to every single night of us driving together when I was pregnant with Emerson. To me lying back and desperately grasping my stomach, just praying for the sickness to quit. I threw up every single night for five months and was totally nauseous for nine. I had never been so wholly miserable. Maybe he is sick, I thought. He was so sweet all those endless months… Maybe I should start being nice.

I grabbed his hand timidly. “I’m really sorry you’re sick, babe. We’ll be home soon.”

We made it home and Doug ran upstairs, while I said good-bye to my parents. I can’t hide anything from my mom, so she could read the disappointment all over my face.

“It was a bad night, Mom. A really, really, really bad night. He’s sick, I’m mean, and we hardly even talked or connected.”

“Sweetheart. You looked so beautiful tonight! I’m so sorry that sickness hijacked your celebration. We’ll babysit for a do-over soon.”

I headed upstairs… and THAT’S when I heard the heaving. Oh. Em. Gee. Doug. Was. SICK. I’ve never heard puking like that in my 28 years. Is he dying?! Are those sounds even human?! Am I unequivocally the most heartless woman ever to live?!

I changed out of my sassy new dress into my favorite USC t-shirt and jammie shorts, wrapped myself in a blanket and knocked on the bathroom door before cracking it open. “Baby!!!!!! I feel SO bad. You’re SO sick. Can I get you anything?”

He looked up weakly. “Just sit with me?” There’s something so irresistible about a very handsome man rendered helpless.

I sat cross-legged on the floor next to him and the toilet, rubbing his back, offered him some of my blanket. I thought about how selfish I’d been to cling SO STUBBORNLY to my picture of the perfect night, the night I thought WE DESERVED after a pretty hard year in the trenches of so many new tensions and joys.

I thought of all my favorite memories of Doug from the last year. I thought of watching him cradle our baby girl like a football. Of losing 45 pregnancy pounds with his infinite love and support, and undying adoration. Of him holding me while I cried and whispered NO into my pillow all night, the night I knew I was miscarrying. Of having him see me at my WORST, and then love me BEST, reminding me that marriage is a picture of God’s endless grace and affection for every one of us.

I thought of how, actually, this seemed strangely like the perfect way to celebrate our seven years, huddled there in our sweats and jammies, slowly beginning to laugh. We’ll celebrate many more anniversaries with fancy dinners and glamorous getaways. This might our only one on the bathroom floor.

Me: “I’m sorry I was so bratty and selfish. I hope you can forgive me. Happy anniversary. Thank you so much for loving me.”

Doug: “Happy anniversary, beautiful. I love you. I love you forever. I know this was NOT the night of your dreams.”

In sickness and in health, babe!

In sickness and in health.

The night was everything I dreamed of and more.

If there’s anything I’ve learned about marriage so far, it’s that the REAL stuff is when it gets GOOD.

“This is one of the miracles of love: It gives a power of seeing through its own enchantments and yet not being disenchanted.” — C.S. Lewis

EPILOGUE: The flu hit me HARD at about midnight. Two things: Doug was MOST DEFINITELY not faking it, and Mastro’s is no longer my favorite restaurant.