It is a little past six. My wife calls from the road to say she is on her way home—hungry. She wears several hats, but mainly she is rabbi and high-tech marketing guru. I hold down a part-time job (currently working with Mary, Jen, Lauren, Kerry, and Shelly, our leader, sorting small packages at the local UPS hub); it pays excellent health benefits, but a mere fraction of her earnings.
I have done the shopping, and cleaned the house somewhat. Now I begin cooking. I know her favorite meal is steak, baked potato, and asparagus, but I cooked that earlier in the week. Friday, our daughter is home from college; she'll want my Italian roast chicken, roasted potatoes, and garlic sauteed spinach. So, tonight it'll be turkey cutlets with cherry sauce, brown rice, and braised broccoli. Broccoli is safe; serving her most green vegetables reaps the response: "Are you trying to poison me?" She will complain about the rice, but, I figure, someone has to keep her healthy.
Some nights, she takes me out for dinner. We go in her car; it's larger and more powerful. She drives when we go by car together. She'll pick a nice, quiet restaurant, preferably, one that serves prime rib. If their portion exceeds her ability to finish, often, we share. Like as not, she'll order a glass of wine, and I will sip some of it. When we finish, she'll pull the card out of her pants and pay (though there have been times she forgot her card, and I've had to retrieve mine from my purse).
All the years, our daughter was in public school, I picked her up after school, and I attended all the school shows. One memorable year, her mother was away from home over 200 nights, on business and at seminary. Her teacher lamented: "That poor motherless child." But, we got along well. The only thing we couldn't do together was bra shopping.
I do love my life. We will celebrate our 23rd anniversary on the first day of Spring (hard to believe Spring is coming after today), and we only love each other more as the years roll by. I am sitting combing out the longest locks in the family, wearing the size 18 lavender top she bought for me that day last summer when she whisked us off to her favorite spot to chill on the coast of Maine. As I read this thread, there is something comforting in knowing that we are preserving the sanctity of our home (and my attractiveness to other TGs) because neither of us wear a dress.
S