In Husbands We Trust

I don't particularly consider myself a feminist. Not in the strict sense anyway. But nor do I consider myself helpless. I know how to check the fluids in my car. I can change a tire. I can lift/move heavy furniture and boxes. I can change a tire. I know how to balance a checkbook. All generally considered male roles. And I also can fulfill the female roles. I can sew. I can cook enough to keep from starving. I understand the concept of food presentation. I can clean any room of the house. I can make a bed. I can do laundry. All generally considered female roles.

Something I've discovered about being married is learning where to draw this line between "I'll do it" and "I can do it." And that's just the beginning. Once you figure out where that line is, there's the additional task of being careful not to wound the male pride, which is a very real enigma.

Last night we had a horrible wind/rain/thunder/lightning storm that really blew in out of nowhere. The kind of storm that I really love. The kind that makes you feel safe and protected within your own four walls while you watch and listen to Mother Nature's violence outside. At 1:15 I awoke to a crashing noise and the sound of the wind and the rain hitting our bedroom window. Something else seemed wrong though, the sounds seemed too loud. I nudged my sleeping husband and said, "I think our doors are open." Now, we live on the second floor of our building and we have a deck off the living room that is accessed by a set of French doors. The lock on these doors have been broken since we moved in. I expected him to jump up immediately and rush out to the living room immediately to protect from whatever lurked out there. His response? "Unnhhh," as he rolled over and went back to sleep. So I got up and creeped down the hallway to the living room, peeking around to discover that the wind had indeed blown both doors wide open and wind and rain and debris was blowing into the living room. I slammed both doors shut, only to turn around and take a step away and have them blow open again with another strong gust of wind. Frustrated, I slammed them shut a second time and then leaned against them as I searched for something to put against them to hold them closed. Remembering we had a box of donation items in the spare bedroom, I went to retrieve the box and came back and placed the box in front of the doors. Satisfied that I had solved the problem, I went back to the bedroom only to discover Kevin still lying comfortably in the bed. In anger and frustration, I made the comment, "Wow. My hero." This hit a chord and woke him up, at which point I told him that the doors in the living room kept blowing open and now we'd have to sit up and wait until the storm passed, just in case the box I had placed didn't hold. As if to prove my point....another gust of wind came through and I heard the doors open once again. At this point we both got up and went to the living room and Kevin moved a short cabinet in front of the doors, which held them in place.

Coming back to the concept of feminism....I could have kept those doors closed, even if I had to sit with my back against them until the storm passed. But what I wanted was for my man to jump to my protection. This doesn't make me any less capable. When he didn't immediately respond the way I wanted, I got upset. In hindsight, I can see that I didn't wake him up fully the first time and he sleeps too soundly to realize anything was going on. At the same time, a comment I made off-handedly, in frustration, struck a nerve with his sense of masculine pride that I hadn't really considered. The end result was that I had to apologize for my comment and he had to recognize my inborn desire to be protected from things that go bump in the night.

Walking this line is difficult and a challenge we meet often. Defining new roles. Learning not to step on toes. And learning to coexist in this union we've chosen to create. God bless those who've made it 25, 50, 75 years. May the secrets to their marriages somehow find its way to us.

~mtb