Right now I am sitting in my favorite chair, watching David listen to NPR in the kitchen. Then man wonders why it takes him an hour to wash eight dishes, but we both know that it is his unhealthy addiction to the sonorous newscasters on National Public Radio. I am not a fan. In my opinion, NPR's radio personalities all sound like they took an overdose of cold medicine and chased it with a glass of wine.
When Bee was a newborn, David used to listen to NPR every night while he made dinner, full volume. The news discussion of the day would blare down the hall, through the dining room, into our little study where I was usually curled up on the couch with a sleeping, nursing, or sleeping/nursing baby.
The talking was inescapable. Hypnotized by the constant droning, I would eventually drift into the kitchen, baby in the crook of my arm, and listen to the news. I secretly like to hear the news. Sometimes the stories are very interesting. However, until the broadcasters begin to speak with Italian accents as opposed to California nasal, it is banned in the house.
Since David knows my feelings about NPR, he very considerately wears headphones while he listens to the news. Tethered to his computer by an extra long cord, he gracefully maneuvers to and fro, cautious lest his computer slide off the countertop. (That would be the death blow to his poor laptop. We've had it nearly our entire marriage.)
His computer was our computer before we decided that I needed my own for graduate school. It was the first major purchase we made together, aside from a few items of furniture for our apartment. The laptop has survived a road trip from Guatemala to Virginia, five international moves, more countries and overhead luggage compartments than it should have to. David has meticulously maintained it, applying ram and external hard drives like an aging starlet injects Botox.
David takes care of things. He is a doer. He makes reservations, drives stick shifts, solves problems, reads maps. I draw on his confidence, and admire his ability to tackle life head on. Even more tellingly, he takes care of me: doing the dishes because he knows I hate scraping plates, taking Max for his "last call" walk of the night because it's cold and dark outside, and cutting Bee's fingernails because he knows I couldn't stand it if I accidentally nipped her skin and made her cry.
In a little over a week, we will celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary. We aren't planning anything special for the day; our vacation to the US was our anniversary and Christmas gift to each other. Instead, I will take some time to reflect on how much we have grown up and grown together in these past six years. So much. I am so lucky to have him as my husband--dish washing deficiencies and all.
