Love manners and matters

When I was a child, I rated my affection for something based on one question: Did I love it more than I loved my mom? To me, love was a hierarchy, and Mom was firmly and forever at the top.

Sure, I loved macaroni and cheese, I loved mashed potatoes, I loved listening to the Bay City Rollers and wearing my ever so stylish elephant pants. But did I love those things more than Mom? Not even close.

I soon started applying the same question to people. I loved my sixth-grade teacher, but not more than Mom. I loved my BFF, but not more than Mom. I even thought I loved a boy or two, but certainly not more than Mom. (Their failing the test, I now see, was truly a blessing for me.)

Then came Jim. I soon learned a very important lesson: My love test was silly, my love test was naive. Love isn't a matter of degree, I realized, it's a matter of manner, and I loved Jim in a far different manner than I loved my mom. Not more, not less, just different.

Yes, I loved my mom, but I sure didn't want to spend the rest of my life with her. I did, though, want to spend the rest of my life with Jim. Fortunately he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, too. So we married. And had kids.

When the first baby was born, there was the struggle of coming to terms with the fact—for Jim and for me—that the manner of baby love was such that it required more attention, more nurturing, more time than anything else in our world. It wasn't a matter of loving the baby more than Jim, though it took a while to convince him of that.

When the second baby was set to arrive, I had to convince myself that I wouldn't love my first more than the second. I had yet to learn how much the heart expands with each child. The lesson was confirmed when that second baby arrived. And again when the third baby arrived.

Again and again I've learned—and did my best to teach—that each and every one of those loves of my life were loved the very most I could possibly love, just all in a different manner. I've never loved one child more than another; they're loved in manners befitting them. Sure, there were—and continue to be—days when one drives me more batty than another, but that has nothing to do with love. I love them all fully, love them all completely. I just love my oldest daughter in a manner far different than the second, which is far different than the third. I like to think, and continue to hope, that the manner in which I love them is the manner in which they need, deserve, love in return.

If you're a mother, you get that.

When I learned I'd be a grandmother, though, I clearly didn't get it. Not fully. I wasn't sure I could love my grandchild as much as I loved my children. How, how, how could I, I wondered, when I loved my girls so fully and completely?

Again the matter of manners came into play. The manner in which I love my first grandson is so very different than the manner in which I love his mom...and his aunts. No one more, no one less, all of them different.

Which made it easier when my second grandson came along. I now fully and completely love him, too, yet in a manner so different from how I love his brother.

It's been more than thirty years since I first learned the lesson that love isn't a hierarchy or a matter of degrees, that it's a matter of manners. My love has grown to encompass so many in that time. I love my grandsons. I love my daughters. And I love my cats, my dogs, my house, my home. I do still love macaroni and cheese, too, and do still love potatoes. The Bay City Rollers? Well, not so much anymore.

Through all the additions, though, I still love my mom.

And I still truly and deeply love Jim.

And despite all that we've been through in our decades together, all the other manners—and the oft-heartbreaking matters—that have been thrown into the mix, I do still want to spend the rest of my life with him.

All of my manners of love matter, but today, that is the manner that matters the most.

Happy Valentines Day!

photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What love manners and matters are on your mind today?

The Saturday Post: Zeppelin wedding song edition

As of tomorrow, Jim and I will have been married 29 years. When planning our wedding all those kajillion years ago, we knew right away that we wanted "Thank You" by Led Zeppelin as our wedding song. Our pastor, on the other hand, said, "I will puke if you play that song." Seriously.

So we relented and simply had my sister read the lyrics to "Thank You" as a poem during the ceremony. Our official song ended up being the generic but still lovely and fitting "The Wedding Song" by Paul Stookey...played on guitar and sung by our non-puking pastor.

In honor of our anniversary, here is the song Jim and I consider our real wedding song, albeit a more recent, more mellow version than the original. Just so no one will puke.

Happy 29th anniversary, Jim!

Today's question:

What was your wedding song?

Mismatch mishmash

1983 — Seems a lifetime agoI recently considered joining one of those online dating sites. Jim and I have been together a long time — 30-plus years — and I was just curious. He and I talked about it, and he was curious, too. So we'd both join. Just to see.

What we both were curious about wasn't other fish that might be swimming in the online sea of possibility, but of the possibility that, after all these years together, he and I might be matched with one another. If it's possible that others, including computerized compatibility metrics, would consider us a perfect match.

So I asked Brianna, who had dabbled in the sites a while back, how such sites work, if it would be possible for her parents to sign up under assumed names that only he and I would know and see if we were matched. She laughed and said we could give it a shot, but it's not likely we'd be matched considering how different we are in so many ways, on so many things.

And she's right about the differences. We disagree on many things, sometimes vocally, sometimes stupidly. Yes, we have our differences. For example:

Politics — he votes (for the most part) along party lines; I vote with whomever shows the most common sense, regardless of party. Plus, he likes to talk politics; I don't ... mostly because we can't agree, can't even agree to disagree.

Food — he goes for sweets; I go for salty. he likes Miracle Whip; I like real mayo.

Time — his philosophy: we'll get there when we get there; my philosophy: punctuality is a virtue.

Chit-chat — he likes to exchange small talk with cashiers, doctors, servers; I figure they don't genuinely give a hoot so just shut up finish business as quickly as possible.

Sleep — he likes to sleep late; I like to get up and get going.

Animals — he prefers dogs; I prefer cats.

Closet space — he lines up his shoes and hangs all his clothing facing right; I throw my shoes in a pile and all my clothing faces left.

Drawer space — he folds his socks and undies; I say, "you gotta be kidding" (but he's not).

Driving — he likes to pay no attention to what he should take in everything around him while driving; I like to focus on the road. <ahem>

Chores — he likes to relax first, do chores later; I like to get my chores done then relax.

Quiet — he prefers background (or foreground!) music 24/7; I prefer quiet now and then.

Vacation time — he takes it only if forced (by me); I'll take it any time I can get it.

Vacations — he likes to relax, always; I like to see and do all we can in locations we'll likely never visit again.

Money — let's just say we each handle it our own way and leave it at that.

That's just a small sampling of the differences that loom large in our relationship. So large that Brianna was quite concerned about our proposed online dating experiment.

"If you don't get matched up, are you going to get a divorce?" she asked. In all seriousness. Surprisingly serious considering it came from a nearly 30-year-old adult, not a youngster needlessly worrying Mommy and Daddy might not live together anymore.

"Of course not," I assured her, explaining that on the big things, we agree.

"Like what?" she asked, with disbelief I could offer any.

So I listed them. A list far shorter than the ones on which we disagree. But here it is: We agree wholeheartedly on issues related to faith, home, and family. A tiny list, but a list of the things that matter. The only things that matter, ultimately.

In explaining that to Brianna and later considering our conversation, I realized there was no need to experiment with online dating sites to see if Jim and I might be matched. It doesn't matter. Whether others — or computers — consider us a good match is irrelevant. Because we know we are. And that we will continue to be. Always. Forever. Because although we don't agree on much, there's no question that we agree on what matters: faith, home, and family.

Oh, and we agree on one more ever-so-important matter: movies. And a shared distaste for those featuring Jim Carrey. Or the word "Saw" in the title.

So there we have it. Match made. Curiosity quelled.

Bottom line: There's no need to consult dating sites, no need to look elsewhere. Regardless of stats and compatibility, Jim and I will continue to look only at the road we've chosen. Together. Forever.

Case closed.

(Although I just gotta add that I will be doing most of the driving down that particular road, of course, because his eyes tend to wander when at the wheel. Just saying. Okay, okay ... we won't go there ... at least not this time ... not this post.)

Today's question:

How are (or were) you most alike and most different from your partner?