Carry On, Warrior

by Glennon Doyle Melton

  • • •

  Let’s just say that the morning of March 20, 2003, I did not feel like the most popular girl in school. I did not feel like anything could happen. I felt like nothing could happen. Deflated, I sat down on the couch with my crying baby and turned on the TV. The news anchor announced that America had officially declared some sort of war. What??? I yelled at the TV. On my birthday?????

  That was IT.

  I called Craig at work. He didn’t answer, so I hung up and called back immediately, which is our bat signal for it’s an emergency. He answered on the first ring, “Hi, What’s wrong? Is everything okay? Another fire???”

  I had set the apartment on fire the previous week. Twice. Firefighters had come both times. Blaring their sirens and holding their big hoses and wearing their big masks and costumes and everything, which I thought was a little dramatic of them. The fires weren’t that big. But Craig was still a little jumpy. Anyway, that’s not the point of this story. For the love of God, try to focus on MY BIRTHDAY.

  Me: No, husband. There is no fire. It is much worse than that. You should know that I have cancelled my birthday. Today is no longer my birthday.

  Craig: What? Why?

  Me: Because it is early afternoon and nothing extraordinary has happened to me yet. Except, apparently, some sort of war. I hate this day. And so it is not my birthday. Cancel it in your brain. Tomorrow is my birthday.

  Craig: Okay. Ooooookay. Should I cancel our reservations and the sitter for tonight?

  Me: No. No you shouldn’t, Honey. We will still go out to dinner tonight. But it will be a working dinner. Bring a pencil and paper, because tonight I will hold a seminar just for you about my birthday expectations. They are many and they are specific, so you will want to wear your thinking cap. Also, find a sitter and make reservations for tomorrow night too. Tomorrow night will be my birthday dinner. My birthday is tomorrow. Consider it a second chance. You are welcome. See you tonight, Love. For the seminar.

  We went to dinner that night, and I explained to Craig that my parents showed their love by celebrating special days. I told him that they paid attention to what I really wanted and cared about, offered thoughtful gifts, and created meaningful traditions. I explained that this is how I learned to accept love. So when he didn’t do that, it made me feel panicked and unloved somewhere down really deep.

  Craig explained that he loved me very much. And because he loved me, he wanted me to feel loved. But he said that it’s hard to know what makes a person feel loved best. So he thought it was kind and wise that I figured out what made me feel loved and shared it with him. He said he was grateful. It made him feel safe, like I would help him through this marriage thing instead of being secretly resentful.

  The Love Seminar worked for us. There was crying, laughing, and lots of talking about how hard it is to come from two different families and make a new one. We talked about how impossible it is to read minds and hearts and what a relief it is to hear what the person you love needs and learn how to give it. To set each other up for success rather than failure.

  The next morning, on March 21, 2003, my temporary birthday, Craig walked into our bedroom with hot coffee and bagels covered with pink candles. He sang to me and asked me to make a wish.

  When I peeked out of the bedroom I saw posters covering the walls of our apartment. They said, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HONEY! I LOVE MY AMAZING WIFE! The posters had balloons and hearts drawn all over them. Boys can’t really draw balloons and hearts. Ridiculously cute.

  I squealed and Craig beamed. I kissed him good-bye and he said he’d call soon. Every hour, in fact.

  I peeked into Chase’s room and saw that his crib was decorated with blue streamers.

  I went to pee, unrolled some toilet paper, and little sticky notes fell out of the roll, “Happy birthday baby!”

  Teamwork. Love takes teamwork, I think.

  These days, Craig is known for his skill at celebrating special family days. He takes pride in it. He is a master. Legendary. I can’t tell you how many times a friend has said to me, “You are so lucky. He is amazing.”

  And part of me wants to say, “Lucky? Whadyathink? He fell out of the sky like that?”

  But instead I say, “I know. He is.”

  Lucky Seven

  Dear Craig,

  One night, not all that long ago, after we put the kids to bed, you and I squeezed alongside each other on our big green couch and stared at the pictures of our babies on the mantle. We noticed together how lovable and perfect they were frozen in those pictures, unable to move or pinch each other or beg for dessert. We discussed how achingly much we loved them, especially when they were asleep. After some quiet, I said, “I love you more today than I did on our wedding day.” A moment passed before you replied, “Me too. But to be fair, we didn’t really love each other that much on our wedding day.”

  My eyes widened and I sat up quickly and tried to decide if my feelings were hurt. Then we burst out laughing, and I cried a little. It was the first time we’d acknowledged how confusing and terrifying that day was. That day in your parents’ backyard when we met at the end of a long white aisle and promised to love each other ’til death, certain only that we had two things in common: the little one inside me, and the shared belief that eventually, if we just did the next right thing as we understood it, Everything Would Be Okay.

  It was the first time we’d admitted to each other that ours was a type of arranged marriage, like they have in India. Only instead of by tradition and parents, ours was arranged by too much wine and too few precautions. And God, maybe. But did I love you that day? I guess I couldn’t have, because I didn’t even know you then. You were a gift I hadn’t yet unwrapped.

  I didn’t know that when we brought Chase home from the hospital and laid him on the floor of our little apartment, I would look at your face and see that there was nothing more to worry about, because it was clear that you were officially hooked on us.

  I didn’t know that you and I would lie in bed together each night, hold hands under the covers, and ask God to protect our babies and each other. I didn’t know that I’d awaken during your midnight newborn shifts and hear you singing to our baby girl. I didn’t know that you’d allow Sister to fall into our home and arms and that you’d rebuild her broken heart one hug, one grilled turkey burger, one silly dance at a time.

  I didn’t know that your goodness, your generosity, and your loyalty would be lifeboats to my parents during the storm of their lives. That all by yourself, just being who you are, you would preserve their faith in people.

  I didn’t know that you’d hold me tight the nights our adoptions fell through and whisper to me not to worry, because we’d never give up.

  I didn’t know that when you left each morning, I’d have your gentle spirit in Chase, your playfulness in Tish, and your affection in Amma to keep me company.

  And I didn’t know when I started recording our silly, seemingly insignificant daily adventures, that what I’d end up with, on second glance, is a Love Story.

  Fireworks

  I met Craig on July Fourth, 2000, at an all-day bar crawl in Washington, D.C. A bar crawl is an event during which hundreds of people travel together from one bar to the next, drinking heavily at each one. The purpose of the traveling is to make the drunk people feel like they are accomplishing something, in addition to the usual liver and reputation damage. During this event, entire D.C. blocks were closed off from traffic and the streets were packed with guys and girls holding plastic cups and performing for each other.

  It was just 10:00 a.m. when I first saw Craig, so I’d had only three or seven beers and I was still lookin’ good. I stood on a curb with one of my oldest and best friends, Dana, and we scanned the sea of people together. I saw Craig and thought, “Hmmmm.” He was tan and laughing. Craig is always tan and laughing.

  I pinched Dana. She knew him, I rememb
ered that. Craig was a year ahead of Dana and me in high school. Dana grew up next door to him, and she and her friends used to meet at her house to peek out the window and watch Craig mow the lawn shirtless. Dana’s mommy, whom I love, told me later that she and her friends used to do the exact same thing at bridge club.

  So Dana and I walked over to say hi. She introduced us. Craig smiled real big and his eyes squinched up like they do and my stomach did that flip-flop thing. I was petrified. I am petrified of all boys, always have been, always will be. Craig was gorgeous and wearing blue and smiling, and I thought, I’m going to die. We talked for a while. I have no idea what we talked about, because I was thinking about looking hot and cool at the same time, and this is really difficult after seven drinks in 95 degree weather. Our conversation ended too soon. My friends found me and his found him. We said bye and smiled at each other. It was way too early and awkward and bright to ask for numbers.

  We went our separate ways to attend to the important business of drinking our weight in beer and doing regrettable things.

  Then: TWELVE hours later.

  It’s 10:00 p.m. I’m on the dance floor at the eighth and final bar of the day. I’ve just finished flailing around with my girls to “I Will Survive.” Now I find myself dancing with a boy who tells me he’s going to call me the following day so I can go on his boat. I remember thinking two things:

  #1.You so do not have a boat.

  #2.Must think of fake phone number fast. Why can’t I remember what a number is?

  I look over behind the bar and see Craig standing there, ordering a beer. The bartender appears to be flirting with him. I am grateful the bartender is a boy.

  I think: Oh God Oh God Oh God.

  I abandon lying boat man and sneak off the dance floor.

  I stand off by myself, drinking my beer, trying to look both available and busy. In case Craig is watching, I smile and wave to imaginary people on the dance floor who are neither waving nor smiling at me. It’s important to feel popular when you are nervous.

  Craig was watching me. As a matter of fact, he had spent the past half-hour mentally formulating a plan to convince me to come home with him. He predicted that it would take a while to get me to leave all of my friends, especially since we’d just met, but he was hopeful. We would dance, get to know each other, maybe go for a walk through D.C. and order some late night pizza. Then he’d ask if I wanted to see his new house.

  He walked over to me, handed me a beer, and opened with:

  Hey.

  Oh, hey.

  Having fun?

  Yep, you?

  Yeah. Getting tired, though. Thinking about heading home soon.

  Kay. Let’s go.

  He had wasted a lot of time planning.

  So we excitedly hailed a cab together, but when we arrived at his house, we discovered that neither of us had any money. So Craig asked the cabbie if he could leave me in the car for collateral while he went in and found some cash.

  I remember thinking: Brilliant plan. He’s hot and smart.

  Unfortunately, when Craig got inside, all his buddies were still up partying, and he got a little distracted. Actually, somebody handed him a beer, and he promptly forgot all about me and the cabbie, which I couldn’t really blame him for because after ten minutes of sitting in the cab, I couldn’t remember what I was doing there either. In my drinking days, I was a lot like Dori from Finding Nemo: every moment was a brand-new adventure because I had no clue what preceded it. So I just figured that the cabbie was my new friend and he needed to talk. We chatted for about twenty minutes. Then somebody inside said to Craig, “Hey, who was that chick you were talking to at the last bar?” Craig thought, Hmmmm. Something about that question is ringing some sort of bell. And then he REMEMBERED me in the cab! Isn’t that romantic??? And he RAN out to get me. Then he gave the cabbie his money and rescued me, and it all felt very much like a fairy tale.

  Happiness is low expectations paired with a short-term memory problem.

  Craig apologized profusely for forgetting about me. I told him no worries, I understood completely. To make him feel better, I admitted that I had totally forgotten what I was doing in the cab in the first place. I also added that I may have forgotten his name a little bit. I later asked Craig if these admissions had felt like red flags in regard to my character. He said no, he just thought, “This girl is cool. We have a lot in common.” The week before he had woken up early Sunday morning to find himself sprawled across the back seat of a cab at the National Zoo. He had a feeling I might be the kind of girl who understood problems like that. He was right. I was just that kind of girl.

  So we smiled at each other and held hands and went into his house.

  Out to Lunch

  When we were newlyweds, I packed Craig’s lunch for work each day. God knows I couldn’t make dinner, so I thought lunch would be a nice consolation prize. Craig seemed to appreciate the gesture, and it made me feel wifely and loving and grown up.

  One day Chase and I drove to Craig’s office to meet his coworkers for lunch. Craig was waiting in the shiny lobby and proudly led us to the conference room, where clusters of pretty people in fancy suits waited to greet us. I was nervous because the room felt so different from the teachers’ lounge at my school and because everyone was staring at us. But most of my anxiety came from my desperation to make Craig proud. Also, in situations like this, I always feel very short. Usually I start feeling taller and better when everyone sits down. But this time when everyone finally sat and started to eat, things got dramatically worse.

  Most of Craig’s coworkers carried their lunches in from restaurants. The women drank lattes or green teas and nibbled pastries from Starbucks and the men ate paninis or hoagies. The few who appeared to have brought their lunches from home carried their sushi rolls, chopsticks, and Evian in fancy patterned lunch packages that looked like mini-briefcases.

  Craig, on the other hand, their boss, was beaming while using his brown paper sack that I had decorated with rainbow hearts as a place mat on which he spread his four teeny triangles of peanut butter and jelly, string cheese, goldfish, fruit snacks, and lemonade juice box. I watched with horror as he fished out the index card on which I’d written, “To the best daddy in the world— We are so proud of you! Hugs and Kisses, Glennon and Chase.” He read it, smiled, and slid the note into his pocket. I shuddered as I watched his huge fingers pry apart the string cheese’s plastic wrapping and eat it in two bites, then rip off the teeny straw from the juice box, poke it into the little hole, and drink it all in one sip. He looked like a giant holding that juice box. Finally, to my utter dismay, he opened his ocean animal fruit snacks and tossed them into the air, one at a time, catching each one in his mouth.

  I melted into my chair, willed my face to return to its original color, and tried to appear busy feeding Chase. Occasionally I glanced at Craig’s face for signs of humiliation, but none was there. He just looked happy and, well, proud, actually. I was struck deaf and dumb. I gave up on making a good impression and just tried not to cry.

  When Craig got home I greeted him with: “Why didn’t you tell me a year ago about grown-up lunches? Where does everyone learn these things? Did I miss some sort of class? What other basic life things do I not know? I want you to write them down for me, please. Right now.”

  Craig looked surprised and then smiled and said, “I love your lunches.”

  I offered a halfhearted smile and then turned away to make our Easy Mac dinner.

  That night I went into Craig’s closet to put away his laundry and noticed a note taped to the inside of his door. It said, “To the best daddy in the world—we are so proud of you! Hugs and Kisses! Glennon and Chase.”

  Airing Our Dirty Laundry

  Recently as I was walking up and down the grocery aisles, I noticed a distinct, mildewed, putrid odor in the air. I looked around for the responsible par
ty, until I discovered that she was me. I stank.

  When I got home, Craig came out of the house to help me with the groceries and I said, “Honey, smell me. I stink.”

  Craig sniffed my shirt and said without surprise, “Yes, you do.”

  And I said, “Well, what IS that? It’s disgusting.”

  And Craig said the following: “It’s mildew. All our clothes smell like that. We always stink.”

  I’ll just give you a few seconds to digest that information. I know I needed a little time.

  “What? Well why didn’t you tell me, husband?”

  “I was scared to tell you. You get sensitive about . . . housekeeping stuff.”

  “Oh. So allow me to clarify. You’d rather reek all day at work and allow Chase to be the stinky kid in class than risk me getting mad?”

  “Yes. Yes, I would. Definitely.”

  I left the groceries on the counter and immediately drove back to the store to buy some fancy detergent, the kind that costs more than five dollars. I smelled them all until I found one that reminded me of flowers and every popular girl I’d ever met. Then I came back home and started washing each Old Navy T-shirt, Dora the Explorer panty, and pair of yoga pants in the house.

  I learned two very important things that day, and I’d like to share them with you, just in case you are in the Laundry and Wife Remedial Classes, like I am.

  #1.This is, apparently, how laundry works: say your laundry day is Wednesday. You cannot put the laundry in the washer on one Wednesday and then wait to put it in the dryer until the following Wednesday. You must finish it all on the SAME Wednesday. It’s unfair but true. If you don’t, your family will smell like dead mice.