My parents met while they were in undergrad at the University of Detroit. At the time, my mother was still in the convent, and the two were classmates – casual acquaintances, and nothing more.Four years later they re-met at a teaching convention. My mother had since ditched the constraints of a white habit and veil for a more relaxed wardrobe of miniskirts, heeled oxfords and gravity defying frosted hair that poofed out and fell to her shoulders in black and gold waves reminiscent of a sexy skunk.
Due to the financial limitations of a private school teaching salary, my dad could only afford one can of Coke for the two to share on their first date. I happen to find that quite romantic.
When the two married and wanted to start a family, it quickly became apparent that they couldn’t do it unless they made more money. My father started working part-time as a salesman at a Ford dealership to supplement their income. Later, he left teaching altogether and sold Ford cars full time. My mother stayed home with us kids and we had a very happy, very traditional upbringing.
It didn’t occur to me until many years later, what a huge sacrifice that was for my father. My mother, too. My dad taught biology and math and would often tell us stories about taking his students on a trip to Europe. He loved teaching so much that even after working a full day at the dealership, he would take the time to try and help me with my math homework. I was (and still am) terrible at math. I am ashamed to admit that I wasn’t too grateful for his help and would often get so frustrated at my inability to catch on, that I would say, “Dad, that’s now how they do math now!”
On Mondays and Thursdays my father wouldn’t get home from work until 9:15 pm, after the dealership had closed. On those nights, my mom would make up an extra plate of food that she would cover in plastic wrap and heat up in the microwave once he arrived. She would sit with him at the table, while he talked about his day. He would always ‘ooh’ and ‘aaah’ over his meal, even if it was the simplest concoction, simply because my mom had made it for him and he appreciated it.
My husband is an attorney who, thankfully, doesn’t often work the crazy late hours his profession is known for. But in this highly unstable and uncertain economy, no one is safe and no job is guaranteed. I admire many things about my husband, but one of them is his ability to ‘hustle’. He is not one to sit idly by and let ‘whatever happens, happen’. This attitude manifests itself in many ways, but lately he has been putting his energy toward projects, connections, and new business plan ideas. The end goal is, as it always is, to bring financial stability and peace of mind to his family. His family is, at the moment, Duncan and I.
He has had to work late a couple nights a week over the last month due to meetings or business prospects. What this means for me, is that I take the train home from work, saddle up a crazy and energetic Duncan, and trudge out into the snow to take him to the park for a half hour or so of activity. I come home, defrost my hands and feet, feed our four-legged child and then make dinner. Usually, on the occasions that Dave is working late, he grabs take-out or finds some other means of acquiring supper.
But twice now he has come home late, full of stories but an empty belly. And on these nights, I warm up his dinner while he loosens his tie and tells me about his day – the good and the bad – his hopes for us, his plans, his ambitions. I pour him a glass of wine and sit with him while he eats his dinner. His dinner of homemade barbecue chicken pizza that I have re-heated for him with love along with a fresh side salad.
And as I heat up his meal – his meal that, truth be told, HE made two nights ago in anticipation of this late meeting, knowing that I am not the greatest cook and would be left to my own devices which would mean a dinner of either ice cream or cereal - I am reminded of my mom and what she would do for my dad every Monday and Thursday for so many years.
And while we don’t have children and I did not ‘technically’ make this meal for him, the love is there, as is the support and the care and the feeling that we are a team and always striving to do what is best for this team.
And not to toot my own horn, but – well, I did make the salad. I may not be the best cook, but I make a mean salad
