Travellog: Ohio to DC

Open roads and clouds in Pennsylvania

In many ways we feel like we never left. Even though our stint here over three years ago was short, it was gritty and real and left deep impressions on us and our marriage. If we gained some staying power in Italy, we laid our bedrock in Washington DC.

Only 72 hours after saying "I do" I was thousands of miles away from anything familiar. My life felt completely new and foreign. I was a wife now and trying desperately to figure out what that meant for me, for my identity, for my role. I was trying to make the best home I could and look for a job while writing hundreds and hundreds of thank you notes. I was grappling with many of the newnesses that newly weds do but letting much of it fall away as I focused on love and commitment and making dinners without a kitchen. Soon we were both working long hours, living in a place a little rough around the edges, and finding out in a very real way, that we were each others' new everything.

I was thrown in. Sink or swim.

I think we came away sailing.

She kept a small library within reach for the whole drive.

*

About three hours outside the city we hit traffic, and rain, and a text message that made me angry. I wanted to drive. Fast. But instead we rose and fell with the hills and saw mostly red brake lights as we inched (mile-ed) along the highway. It was the darkest point of the drive. Mike patiently sat by my side, probably wishing he was the one behind the wheel and not his raging wife.

As we ate dinner with family Sunday night they asked about the drive, about which point was the worst and whose fault it was. "It was Paige's wasn't it" they said, jokingly (intimating in their sarcasm that the suspected-culprit, Ada, most likely caused the uproars in the car). Mike and I turned to one another, "Yeah. It was Paige." "It was me!"

*

After filling up for the last time I let Mike drive. Because of the traffic, my behind-the-wheel time was less-than therapeutic and handing over the reigns gave me time to close my eyes and find my inner-adult again.

By the time we got to Constitution Avenue I was calm and any sadness or worry or anger I felt faded as the memories surfaced, one after the next, of being in this city as a newly married woman—walking home from the movie theater and wondering if we were lost yet; getting caught in monsoon-like rain and buying new shirts so we wouldn't have to wear our wet ones all night; going to church for the first time at the church on 7th; my first Eastern Market breakfast; riding the bus the completely wrong direction; feeling like a pioneer. My heart felt so big and so ready to do it again.

I love this city. I want to make it home again.

Helping unpack her things

Like a grandfather clock

I've never considered myself one of those pendulum-people who are constantly swinging between immense joy and immense trepidation and fear, but seeing as this post follows the previous one, you (and I) might reconsider.

Packing is in full swing. I've boxed up what kitchen supplies I can fit, stuffed all of our linens and towels into a bag, begun the tedious (but often freeing) process of sorting through clothes and trying to predict what things we can do without. When I'm being completely honest I know I can do with so much less. But the thought of all of these things spending another year in a basement while I rotate between the same 10 shirts makes me sad. And I hate that I'm sad about it.

I realized how much we could do without when we lived in Italy. The simplicity was refreshing. Six suitcases. That's it. If it didn't fit, it couldn't come. We didn't need it. And we truly didn't. I found as so many often do that so many of our "needs" are fabricated.

But it's easy to fall back into "needing" things again, into comparing, and wanting, and opening a box you haven't opened in years and realizing that you do have pretty dishes and things that you'd love to haul along. But there just isn't room for pretty apothecary jars when more important things like irons and towels and pots take precedence. So I'm learning again: you don't need it.

I fell into pieces last night thinking about this (and other things). As it always goes, a string of events brought me to a puddle in my husband's arms (I'm so grateful for those arms) but there I was, mad at myself for wanting things, sad that I couldn't take it all with me, frustrated by the constraints of packing, fearing making new friends, overwhelmed by the thought of driving across the country, completely exhausted by my day.

This morning I woke to a kiss and the words, "It will all work out, honey."

Things are looking more rosy already. See? Pendulum.

That's me! That's me!

As a sign of true love and devotion, Mike sat through the entire finale of The Bachelorette with me last night. Groaning and rolling his eyes through much of it he kept saying under his breath, "He's such a BS-er," whenever Jef said something like, "She completes every part of me!!" or "I've never loved anyone like this!"

I think he probably deserves a golden badge of courage (or sympathy).

Before Jef proposed, he and Emily exchanged little I-love-you-imonies. I told Mike that when we got home, I wanted to do the same thing, sitting up in bed, holding hands.

We got home and tucked ourselves under the covers. He began to tell me how much he loved me, and in true Michael fashion, peppered his words with appropriated phrases from great thinkers and poets and finished with playing me a clip from David Brook's TEDtalk last year (go to 15:27 if you want to hear it from him). In it, he quotes a portion from a book where a man who recently died comes across a photo of his wife and writes:

"I looked at her face and I looked so deeply that I felt I was behind her eyes. And all at once I found myself saying as tears flowed, 'That's me! That's me!' and those simple words brought back many thoughts that I had had before; about the fusion of our souls into one higher-level entity; about the fact that the core of both our souls lay our identical hopes and dreams for our children; about the notion that those hopes weren't separate and distinct hopes, but were just one hope, one clear thing that defined us both, that welded us into a unit; the kind of unit that I had but dimly imagined before beign married and having children. I realized that though Carol had died, that core piece of her had night died at all, but had lived on very determinedly in my brain."

Swoon.

I love my Michael Neal.

We've stopped planning

For the first time in my life it felt like I was the one who was perfectly calm and he the one weighted with uncertainty. I asked Mike what was on his mind (he has never been good at pushing his thoughts down so they're not so visible through his eyes) and he said that everyone who tells you that you should plan is wrong. "You can't plan more than 2 months ahead."

True.

I've thought this dozens, maybe hundreds of times over the course of the last four-ish years. Most of my "plans" were upended. But almost always they were replaced with something better. 1 for Faith. 0 for Reason.

"No, you can't plan. You just have to prepare," I told him. And it's hard to prepare when it could be for any number of things. Usually preparation connotes arranging, training, developing for a specific goal. It seems like in our case, we just prepare to swim, no matter which pool we're tossed in.

*

It's no secret to those close to me that I have terrible contact lens hygiene. I'll take them out when they bother me, but usually go days and nights on end wearing them around the clock. At a recent eye appointment my doctor told me that for now, my contact lens wearing has been suspended indefinitely. I've been cursing my glasses—the same pair I wore as a sophomore in high school—every day since. Often the annoyance of pushing them back into place, dodging Ada's grabby fingers, or figuring out how to put my hair behind my ears without knocking them, trumps the convenience of actually being able to see. I'm beginning to be okay with the fact that some things look blurry. I have to bring them close to me to bring them into focus.

*

None of it bothered me last night. So we don't know where we'll be living in the Fall. So we have not a clue where we'll get a job after that. So we're unsure what life will look like a few years down the road. What does it matter?

I feel confident with Michael at my side because I've seen that we are a team that can make anything work. That fact empowers me. It empowers me to take action when I feel like I'm acting in the dark, and it empowers me to sit still and serene when I'm not sure what happens next. We've got one another. And we've got this.

Three years in go-go mode

Today marks three years. Three years simultaneously feels like: Three years! Look at us!! and Three years? That's it? It has seemed like so much longer than that.

Maybe it's because we've pack a lot into our three years—7 moves, 1 new baby, 20 airplanes, 12 states, 6 countries, 6 different jobs, 1 new language, 2 degrees, and countless hours of time spent together wondering when we'll ever settle down. Or maybe it's because once your love someone completely you can't remember what it was like before they came around.

Whatever the case, I think this go-go mode might just be the way we are. We may be on the go forever, but as long as I've got Mike by my side, I'm sure we can handle whatever comes our way. The chaos, the motion, and state of constant flux has made our relationship more nuanced, more real and more enduring. I love you Michael Neal.

I still remember how I felt when this picture was taken. Today, I think I feel like that times three. Marriage just keeps getting better. Because he's my person and I'm his.

Tonight we're going out to dinner and to poke around some book stores in search of the perfect coffee table book about Bologna. What could be more romantic than a coffee table book, right? It's going to be a quiet, relaxing evening without distraction, which is exactly what both of us need.

The No Escape Clause

 I was still in a lovey Valentine's stupor when I listened to the weirdest story on a podcast. It was about a couple who basically had a Rumspringa and ended up deciding they weren't for each other. The man of the partnership was interviewed and concluded that:

"If I do get married in the future, what I think I would want to do is have an agreement that at the end of seven years we have to get remarried in order for the marriage to continue. But at the end of 7 years [the marriage] ends and we can agree to get remarried or not get remarried."

"Why?"

"Because I think you get to choose and I think it would make the relationship stronger."

"I don't know what I think of that. 'Cause I think actually that one of the things that's a comfort in marriage is that there isn't a door at 7 years and so if something is messed up in the short term there's a comfort of knowing like, Well, we made this commitment and so we're just going to work this out. Even if tonight we're not getting along or there's something between us that doesn't feel right, you have the comfort of knowing like, We've  got  time. We're going to figure this out. And it makes it so much easier. . . The no escape clause--weirdly--is a bigger comfort in being married than I ever would have thought before getting married. "

I think the interviewer's concluding remarks will now act as the framework to my standard response to the question: Why did you get married so young? (or got married at all).

I've always believed that love is a choice. And I agree with the guy: it does make the relationship stronger. But it's not a choice we make once when we say "I do." It's an everyday, thoughts, words and deeds choice. It's a choice to put ourselves second and the one we chose first. I love Michael, and he loves me, and we actively choose each other. Every day. So we can do anything. Because choosing each other is empowering. It's also a choice that reassures: You've got time to figure everything out.

Marriage, for me, was an easy choice to make. Sure, Mike and I sometimes tell people half-jokingly that, "You would have gotten married this young too if you were a Mormon," but that's only a partially true. Truth is, it was easy because I knew that we would be active participants in each others' lives for our whole lives. I knew that we would dedicate each day to our family. I knew that by doing that, we would grow to love in a way that is more sincere and complex as each month wears on.

I'm so glad my marriage doesn't end by default every 7 years. How arbitrary. And how distrusting of the choices you make each day for love.

We're in this for the long haul. It's only just getting fun.

Planted sloppy kisses

Last night Mikey and I spent some time trying to remember what we did last year for Valentines. Did we have a special meal brought to us? (Remember, I was 3 days postpartum.) Did we eat chocolate? Did we even remember it was a holiday? I think we must have spent the day gazing at our newest sweetheart without realizing it was Valentine's Day at all.

This year, I have grand plans for a fancy dinner at home. We'll see if I can pull everything off.

When she woke up, Ada must have sensed some love in the air for oggi e San Valentino. This morning she went back and forth between Mikey and I giving us "loves" (resting her head and hands on our chests, shoulders, stomachs, legs . . . she basically does a stop-drop-and-love where ever she's at). But the morning was quickly overshadowed by a two-way miscommunication that resulted in both Mike and I walking to and from the school twice and missing each other both ways. (How in the world!?) True to form, I was cold and frustrated, and I cried when I got home.

Ada immediately guessed that something was up with her mama. She touched my face softly and patted my shoulders. Later she planted several sloppy kisses on my lips. I'm not sure when her understanding of emotion became so nuanced, but it was a new experience to be comforted by my child.

 

Tonight when my Valentine gets home, I think I'll pay it forward and plant several sloppy kisses on his lips.

Bread and TED

Mikey and I finished Friday Night Lights while we were in Germany. He seemed to be relieved? seemingly freed? that it was over. I was sad. Pathetic and true. Don't judge.

Now that we're back in the swing of things with school and routines, we knew we needed to find something structured to do together once Ada is asleep (otherwise, our evenings turn into long sessions of "parallel play" that is as unsatisfactory as it is social). Neither of us really wanted to jump into another TV series. We feel like we need a TV fast. Those 40 minute a day, I'll tell ya . . .

We've started baking bread together. Why? Because Mike has shown an interest in baking a total of one thing with me: bread. So I'm taking him up on it and hoping it will be the beginning of many culinary adventures together.

He told me, "I want it to be my thing. Like, 'Hey Dad! Will you make us some wheat bread!?'" (A man can hope, right? I grew up asking my dad to make Chocolate Chip Cookies which are only slightly more tasty than wheat bread.)

Bread baking comes with a lot of waiting. So last night we listened to TED Talks and talk about interesting ideas. And then we found some Italian newspapers that are going to become part of our nightly language study. Oh and we ate our first loaf. I give it a B-. But this morning's was a solid B. That's marked improvement.

The TED Talk we listened to yesterday got my mind whirring about art again. I'll blog about it tomorrow. Naps only last so long and painting is waaaay easier sans baby.

Bestimme deinen einstellung

When Coach Eric Taylor told his wife (excuse his language), "If I do this thing half-a** it doesn't help anyone," I knew exactly where he was coming from. He was working harder than he ever had in his life and doing it with one thing in mind: his family. I also knew how his wife must be feeling: overwhelmed, discouraged, perhaps a bit isolated and really missing her husband.

Yes I have a grip on reality; I know these are fictitious characters.

But Mike and I had a similar conversation a few days ago. I was struck again by how good he is at seeing the bigger picture. And discouraged for getting stuck in the weeds far too often.

I felt empty, but knew I had to give more. But to give more, I had to be filled.

Mike opened the scriptures and we read passage after passage of comforting, empowering words. While the words sounded beautiful and inspiring, I felt like I had already tried to do what they were saying and didn't reap the power they promised. I felt cut off for some reason. Numb. I explained this to Mike, welcomed some tears in the process and was finally calmed by a blessing.

While Michael spoke, I knew my Father in Heaven was aware of my efforts. I knew He was proud of me. I knew He knew that I could do more than I was allowing myself to do. I knew He wanted me to take the time each day to fill myself. I knew He was there to help me.

I started this week renewed. I have felt fueled by my scripture study. I have felt sustained during the daily grind.

*     *     *

In my high school German class, there was a sign on the door that read, "Bestimme Deinen Einstellung!" I still think about that advice a lot (still!). So much of our happiness—and unhappiness—is a choice. If it's possible for me to be unhappy living in Italy, studying the language of love, and cooking fresh pasta for my beautiful family, it's possible for anyone to find reason to be down.

But it's also possible for all of us to allow ourselves to be happy, to allow ourselves to be filled, to allow (force?) ourselves to seek out the sunshine despite the gloomy forecast.

Too young

Whenever Mike and I are asked how old we are, we say, "Too young." And a part of me really feels that way. Sometimes I remember my age and I'm stunned by where I am and what I'm doing. I'm a wife? I'm a mother? So we always welcome birthdays at our house. It means we're one year less weird for being married with a child.

When I asked Mike what he wanted for his birthday he said the only thing he wanted was to go on a bike ride. A long one with some hills and pretty views and me and Ada. For at least an hour. I admit I was reluctant. The aches in my joints were warning me I was coming down with something, but he held the birthday trump card so as soon as we found a break in the drizzle, we loaded up and headed out. 



I never wrote him a card, so instead I told him my card as we strolled through the portici. "I love you for the way you still find time to make Ada and I the most important thing in your day, even though I know how busy you are. . ." Nothing I said felt like it fit right after I said it.  I love all those things about, it's true. And I was trying to be genuine but the list of things he does and is and means that I enumerated seemed superficial compared to what I wanted to get at.

My close friend posted about love a few days ago. Her post articulated exactly what I was feeling as Mike and I walked home from our night out, but what I was not able to adequately put into words. I love the "absolute singularity" of him (though I confess that I'm still learning what that means and why I love it. I'm finding more and more that love evolves so much as it deepens).

I love Michael because he's Michael. He's mine. For always.

Come again soon

We had a much needed lazy weekend. Saturday we hung around the house and rode our bikes around the park in the afternoon (I wished 100 times I had taken my camera along. . .) We came home to talk with Mike's family and then went out for pizza.

For some reason, I was the grumpiest I have been since arriving here on Sunday morning. Everything is going to be bad, my mood told me. Church will be long because Ada will be squirmy and fussy the whole time, and we'll all freeze on the ride over.

It was a great day of church and Ada was probably on her best behavior yet. And bonus, no one froze. I'm so lucky to be married to a guy who tells me "Paige, the world is not going to end! Ada is fine. She'll be fine, and if she's not I'll take her to priesthood with me," when all I wanted to hear was, "You're right. Life is so cold and fussy right now."

He's my reality-checker-inner and my lets-dream-big-together all in one. I love him so much.

The weekend was a perfect picture of Fall. A nip in the air, jackets, sweaters and scarfs, a brisk bike ride together, playing on the swings, giggles and screams at home, pizza, Friday Night Lights (Mike and I have been talking about the Dillon Panthers all weekend. What have we gotten ourselves into?), church, naps, and an evening with friends and warm apple crisp. (Oh, Brianna and company, please invite yourself over sometime soon!)

Take a walk around

I had a bit of a break down yesterday. It came out of nowhere and probably stemmed from a lack of sleep more than anything (Dear Ada, when will you sleep again like you did at 2 months? Remember the 9 hour stretches?)

It came all at once and left me dissolved to tears about nothing in particular (but it felt like it was about everything in particular. You know, I have to give Ada a bath tomorrow and bathe myself, and leave the house by 10.  How did my life get so hard?)

Retrospectively I think most of us would agree that our meltdowns are silly, but in the moment they are serious and paralyzing. I also think that we have mini-breakthroughs in moments where facing a flood of tears makes us face questions that may have been pressing to be heard. Jack Johnson sings "I hope this old train breaks down, so I can take a walk around." I think I really needed the walk around. That's what breakdowns allow us to do.

I was asked this past weekend if my life was isolating. It might seem so, I answered. But gratefully I haven't felt isolated. The Italians are a warm and though I can't speak their language well (at all) yet, I feel communicated with. My day-to-day routine isn't glamorous or exciting, but it's comfortable and sweet.

But the question was like a canker sore. I thought about it over and over. It may have sowed the discontented sadness. Who knows.

I realized in it all that I missed my husband. Yes, we were together more over the last weekend than we had been in the days previous, but it felt like it had been many, many days since I had had a meaningful conversation with him. And he's the only person to have real conversation with. He's my person. And I realized that he too missed having me as his person.

We sat on the couch and held each other and came to understand a little better what it means to be husband and wife and what it means be intentional about our relationship. It was one of the sweetest moments since we've arrived.

And one of the biggest goals I made for myself while we're here started to happen: the closeness I feel to my little family swelled and grew even more. I might be bursting by the end of this adventure.

Knick knack sidewalk crack

The first text I ever sent Mikey was "How competitive are you?"*  Weird. I know. But I was looking for a team mate for a fairly intense and extremely competitive scavenger hunt. We didn't win, but we were close.

Yesterday I challenged Mikey to a kick scooter short-track race around my parent's tennis court. We decided to do five laps. No line crossing. As we were nearing the end of the fifth (and fastest) lap, Mikey's scooter got caught in a sidewalk crack (this was my chance!) but in my attempt to dodge his scooter (and then his body after he hopped off) I was literally launched out of my sandals and was sent sailing into the fence. My head hit first, but my arm went through two of the slats and was stuck there until Mikey pried the fence apart to set me free. Neither of us won. And maybe it was a good thing because that way no one got gloating rights.

My wedding ring doesn't fit on my finger anymore. But I'm mostly sad about my sandals (see here) that were sacrificed for the (almost) win.

In other news, Ada is no longer content just crawling around to explore. She is now bent on finding furniture, boxes, bags, toys (anything, really) to pull herself up on and take in the view. Also, she crawled up a full flight of stairs yesterday.

I'm thinking the both of us should be put on leashes. (And that I should learn to limit my parenthesis usage.)

* (His response, by the way, was something like, "Well that depends. Are we talking stamp collecting or sports?")

When the crickets came alive

We went to the park twice on Saturday. Ada was sleeping in her car seat for the first little while both times. We went to read the 4th installment of Harry Potter's Adventures (the point at which Mikey stopped reading but now wishes to start up again after seeing the last film) but neither time actually cracked the book.

We laid on our backs and watched nature sway. And then later we laid on our bellies, listened to the crickets come alive and talked about awkward moments when we were dating. (Like this one: Mike: "Hi it's me. I was wondering if you wanted to go to a play with me this weekend." Paige: (Long pause) "Ummmmmmmm (hand over the receiver, whispering to my aunt and sister, "It's him! What should I say?!??) Ummmmmmmm . . . (you see I was just telling them how dashing he is, maybe too dashing, and I wasn't sure about this whole getting serious business) Ummmmm. . . sure. I'll go.")

Then Ada woke up. We sat there together for a little while and I was overcome by just how much I love my little family. I can't wait to grow together in Bologna, far away from familiarity and family. It's going to be scary and lonely and maybe terrible at times, but mostly I think it will be binding, extending and strengthening.

We leave in less than two months. Gah!