53 Weeks - 53 Hours of Party

 

Mini-G

51 Weeks

Greg's birthday precedes Ren's by exactly two weeks and on the timeline, Greg and Ren are separated by two weeks and 43 years. By sixth-dimensional, time-warp, worm-holeness, karmic soul-mate, unified field, apple/tree-like standards, I have a hard time seeing the separation.

Blinded by the Blight

50 Weeks

Tired and Irrational Mommy (TIM): [On her car phone.] Hi.

Sleepy and Irritable Daddy (SID): [At home in front of a muted baseball game.] Hi.

TIM: So. I just wanted to say I'm sorry.

SID: OK. [Long pause.] Where are you—

TIM: [Interrrupting.] I'm on my way back from the store.

SID: How much did you spend—

TIM: [Interrrupting.] I was trying to be funny but it was mean and I was mad and I was trying to make a point and I thought it would be funny but really I had an agenda so I felt bad after I thought about it but it was funny, you thought, huh?

SID: What?

TIM: It was like something my mother would've done.

SID: Yeah?

TIM: I feel bad. I thought it would make a point. I feel bad though.

SID: I don't know what you're—

TIM: [Interrrupting.] I just, I couldn't ask again— Another time— I couldn't but then— Wait, what?

SID: What are you talking about?

Greg and I bicker often when we are stressed. And when you're sick (we caught Ren's cough) and tired (from coughing) and just trying to get through the minutes (without coughing... or mainlining coffee) of a chaotically busy week (now including doctor's appointments, antibiotics, and chicken soup runs), you tend to get frustrated that you can't control even the little things. To make up for it, you make sure to control the little things your partner does, like breathing, and then, well, when it gets out of hand, the rest is a country and western song.

It was a precious Saturday. I don't like to be a person who lives for weekends but more time with Ren and less time at a copy machine will always get my vote. We spent the day at a company picnic complete with sack races, cotton candy, beer, and hamburgers. It was also the first day we'd chosen to start weaning Ren off nursing and that meant I needed to pump as often as possible while rubbing elbows with Greg's colleagues. Not easy. It also meant our grocery list was increasing by the hour. Ren's growth spurts are Hulkish. So after a day of frisbee and dodge ball with people who I wished had worn name tags ("Hey yooouuu. Yes. Greg talks about yoooouu all the time. And how are yooouuu and your kids? Are they here? Oh, riiiiiight, you don't have kids..."), I had to head to the store before it closed. Long day. And then I saw them...

Greg had, once again, taken off his dirty socks and put them on the kitchen counter.

Yes.

I repeat.

Dirty. Socks.

On our kitchen counter.

I swiped at them in anger and turned to head upstairs where I last saw the culprit. Then I paused. I'm tired of being the nag. I'm tired of feeling like a stereotype. How do I make my point? How do I make it stick? How do I make this the night the man of the house stops inspiring the head woman from acting like a sitcom wife? And then I saw it...

Greg had, once again, set out a can of soup and a box of noodles to heat up for his supper.

Yes.

I repeat.

Box of noodles.

On our kitchen counter.

I ripped open the box, stuffed the dirty socks inside and shut it back up again. That will show him. That will teach him. He'll laugh. He'll cry. He'll have to throw away his dinner. Mean, yes, but so is making me continually disinfect. I giggled and zipped out the door. As I drove, the guilt settled in. By the time I'd reached the check-out counter, I barely set my goods on the belt for rushing through to get back home and apologize profusely.

Tired and Irrational Mommy (TIM): [On her car phone.] What am I talking about? Honey. Have you had dinner yet?

Sleepy and Irritable Daddy (SID): [Still in front of a muted baseball game.] Yeah.

TIM: You ate? Soup and noodles? The noodles on the counter?

SID: Yeah.

TIM: You're finished with dinner?

SID: Yes. Why?

TIM: Honey. The socks. I shouldn't have done that. I feel bad.

SID: Oh. [Long pause.] That was you?

I will never not smile at this story. And I will forever love this as an example of my beautiful marriage. Those moments when the universe stops you and reminds you to laugh at yourself and of course, your husband. I still wonder how much time he spent wondering how, why, when, where his socks ended up in that box of macaroni. Two seconds? "Huh. Weird. Whatever. Hungry."

The First Cut Is The Deepest

49 Weeks

Turns out tonguing the back of a Metro North train seat, even for a half second, is as loaded with as many germs as your phobias can imagine. Ren is battling his first cold he picked up somewhere in Apple de la Huge. Only this one is real. He had a runny nose a few months ago and we almost took him to the hospital. The Parent Colored Glasses see every tooth bursting through and spraying blood across the walls. I'm not normal.

Even though our house music is now coughs and shushes, especially at two o'clock in the morning, Ren wakes with a giggle or a happy attempt at a new word. This kid is an inspiration with a capital "P" for positive. For his next cold I promise to be more calm, remember his smiles, and take the drama to bed much earlier every night. I'm so tired. Like I don't know my own world tired. Ren might feel crappy but he still jogs to church, rakes leaves for the aging neighbors, and donates blood to cancer riddled reindeer every other day. All without coffee. I don't know how he does it.

Call Me Mr. Brainwash

48 Weeks

To: "Grayson Morley" <****y@**.com>
From: "Jennifer Skura" <j**a@**.com>
Sent: Friday, August 28, 2015 11:04:54 PM
Subject: Re: NYC....

I love Reoccupied so much. Thank you.

ODDDDD that I am sitting in an NYC hotel room right now. Ren is asleep in a crib by the safety windows and Greg in the bathtub full of heavy chlorination. I haven’t been back here since April 2014 and I lived here from Dec 2000 to Jan 2013. I feel like I’m home tonight, even in a hotel, and reading your piece felt just right. And of course made me think about my family in Texas even though I haven't occupied any real estate there in years. (I still relate warmly to the Christmastime pullout couch however.)

Your words are perfect. Even your writer’s bio. Can’t wait to read this in The New Yorker.

De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da

47 Weeks

I haven't finished any of my writing. I haven't papered the bedroom or repotted the plants I left on the porch. I haven't made a hot dinner, done the laundry, or changed the sheets in two weeks. The last weed I pulled was up to my arm pit. I haven't answered an email in six days and I haven't returned a phone call since my birthday last year. I bring work home from the office at night and carry it back there again every morning. I forget to feed the dog at breakfast and when I kiss my husband I barely look at him.

I'm in love with a tiny, little bald guy who puts sticky fingers up my nose, pees in the tub, and calls me "ATSH."

Hindsight is Plenty Plenty

46 Weeks

Almost exactly nine years ago I met Greg Skura. Shortly after, we spent months together rehearsing a Václav Havel play with an exceptional team of collaborators. Many nights and weekends doing our favorite thing with our favorite folks and all while falling in love. It was heaven. We never looked back.

If seconds after I laid eyes on Greg in that audition room, future me tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You're going to marry him, move to the country, and have his son." I would have said, "I know." I just did. And even though our favorite thing has devolved into visiting farm animals on our days off, it's still heaven.

Greg... he probably would have told future me to calm down and get some rest.