Move the Pillows, Bite the Tongue
We have exactly six pillows on our bed which, to be honest, is at least three more than we agreed to when we got married. We swore we wouldn't be that couple with a thousand throw pillows to remove and replace each time we unmade or remade the bed. But here we are, thirteen years later. Three sleeping pillows, and three decorative shams. Each night when we go to bed, we take the silly things off, lean them against the wall, and crawl into bed. And each morning, we pull up the covers, prop up the sleeping pillows, and pile the shams back on. It's probably unnecessary.
For several weeks, if I was the last one to bed, I would come in to find one or two of the shams removed from the bed, and the one on my side still there. I have to stop here to say that Micah is incredibly thoughtful and does far and away more for me than I do for him. But in this one area, there was an exception. I would sigh and grumble to myself and mutter under my breath some kind of comment about how he couldn't just pull that last pillow off and spare me the trouble. Sometimes, in my passive aggressive frustration, I would make a big show of removing the last pillow, flopping it noisily down and sighing as I did it. But I never said anything. It went on for a number of nights before one night it dawned on me: I was frustrated that he wasn't thinking of me, but I hadn't been thinking of him, either. So I made myself a promise. For as many nights as I could, I would beat him to bed, and I would remove all the pillows. I wouldn't say a word about it, no matter how long it went on.
It was a small act of service (unbelievably small, actually!). But I did it for a year and a half. More nights than not, I would get to the room first, remove all three pillows, and crawl into bed. Sometimes I would even stop at the room first, before brushing my teeth, so that I could get the pillows off before Micah got there. He never said a word. He never even noticed. But I did. And every time I reached for the pillow on his side of the bed, I was reminded of the little ways I could, and should, be serving him. It made me mindful every day to look out for the little things that would lighten the load and put him first.
Last night he was venting about a long week and a long day. We've had a lot going on the last two weeks, and since I've been working and juggling clinicals for my last class, much of the housework has fallen to him. I listened to him vent, but I wasn't really listening. I was formulating my response. It went something along the lines of, I know you did a lot of work, but you should have seen how much housework I did when I stayed home and they were little! That's life when you're the stay-at-home parent, you know? There was nothing loving, self-sacrificing, or kind in my would-be response, but I felt like I would somehow be vindicated for all my own hard work if I got the comment in. Like it was some kind of martyr-like competition.
I was in the bathroom washing my face when he'd first started talking. When he got to the end of his sentence, I spit out my reply. There was no answer. I waited a moment, then stuck my head out of the door. He was gone! He'd left the room to check on something in the laundry room after he finished talking. I sighed. I'd try again. He came back a few minutes later. I took a breath, debated about how to bring the subject back up, and tried again. No answer. Seriously? I looked around. He'd stepped out of the room again to get something for Ray!
I stopped. OK, God. Are you trying to keep me from making the comment? Me and my big mouth. OK, maybe I just shouldn't say it.
But the temptation was huge. I couldn't resist. I couldn't keep myself from that little jab, from somehow one-upping him in this whole parenting thing. He came back to the room, and I found myself dying to make the comment. I brought the subject up again. I was on the verge of making my long-pending comment when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Thomas was out of bed. He interrupted exactly at the moment I started to talk!
It shouldn't have taken three times to stop me. The comment shouldn't have entered my mind at all. This is not a competition for most caring, most selfless. It's not a competition for best spouse or hardest working. It's a marriage. Period. And in a marriage, the goal is never to one-up. It's to love. Without reward or recognition. Marriage is about making the other person--and the other person's life--better.
Thirteen years, and I still have a very long way to go. But I can say now from experience, a good marriage starts with moving the pillows and biting your tongue. More often than not.
For several weeks, if I was the last one to bed, I would come in to find one or two of the shams removed from the bed, and the one on my side still there. I have to stop here to say that Micah is incredibly thoughtful and does far and away more for me than I do for him. But in this one area, there was an exception. I would sigh and grumble to myself and mutter under my breath some kind of comment about how he couldn't just pull that last pillow off and spare me the trouble. Sometimes, in my passive aggressive frustration, I would make a big show of removing the last pillow, flopping it noisily down and sighing as I did it. But I never said anything. It went on for a number of nights before one night it dawned on me: I was frustrated that he wasn't thinking of me, but I hadn't been thinking of him, either. So I made myself a promise. For as many nights as I could, I would beat him to bed, and I would remove all the pillows. I wouldn't say a word about it, no matter how long it went on.
It was a small act of service (unbelievably small, actually!). But I did it for a year and a half. More nights than not, I would get to the room first, remove all three pillows, and crawl into bed. Sometimes I would even stop at the room first, before brushing my teeth, so that I could get the pillows off before Micah got there. He never said a word. He never even noticed. But I did. And every time I reached for the pillow on his side of the bed, I was reminded of the little ways I could, and should, be serving him. It made me mindful every day to look out for the little things that would lighten the load and put him first.
Last night he was venting about a long week and a long day. We've had a lot going on the last two weeks, and since I've been working and juggling clinicals for my last class, much of the housework has fallen to him. I listened to him vent, but I wasn't really listening. I was formulating my response. It went something along the lines of, I know you did a lot of work, but you should have seen how much housework I did when I stayed home and they were little! That's life when you're the stay-at-home parent, you know? There was nothing loving, self-sacrificing, or kind in my would-be response, but I felt like I would somehow be vindicated for all my own hard work if I got the comment in. Like it was some kind of martyr-like competition.
I was in the bathroom washing my face when he'd first started talking. When he got to the end of his sentence, I spit out my reply. There was no answer. I waited a moment, then stuck my head out of the door. He was gone! He'd left the room to check on something in the laundry room after he finished talking. I sighed. I'd try again. He came back a few minutes later. I took a breath, debated about how to bring the subject back up, and tried again. No answer. Seriously? I looked around. He'd stepped out of the room again to get something for Ray!
I stopped. OK, God. Are you trying to keep me from making the comment? Me and my big mouth. OK, maybe I just shouldn't say it.
But the temptation was huge. I couldn't resist. I couldn't keep myself from that little jab, from somehow one-upping him in this whole parenting thing. He came back to the room, and I found myself dying to make the comment. I brought the subject up again. I was on the verge of making my long-pending comment when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Thomas was out of bed. He interrupted exactly at the moment I started to talk!
It shouldn't have taken three times to stop me. The comment shouldn't have entered my mind at all. This is not a competition for most caring, most selfless. It's not a competition for best spouse or hardest working. It's a marriage. Period. And in a marriage, the goal is never to one-up. It's to love. Without reward or recognition. Marriage is about making the other person--and the other person's life--better.
Thirteen years, and I still have a very long way to go. But I can say now from experience, a good marriage starts with moving the pillows and biting your tongue. More often than not.
