Girl's Night

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Last night was a girl's night out.

I met three other women and we saw New Moon.

It has been a very long time since I've gotten together with girls, without kids, without Hubster. In fact, after I got home and thought about it, I couldn't remember the last time I had done that.

Estrogen is therapeutic.

I had been looking forward to my night out all week. That morning, I spent a little extra time doing my hair, a little more time picking out my clothes, a little more time just trying to look nice.

When I got to work, I got all sorts of compliments. That I looked nice, that that color really looked good on me, that I should wear my hair down more often. My attending commented she had never seen me wear boots or wear my hair down. I explained that I was having a girls night out and was very excited about it.

She gave me a strange look.

"You get dressed up nice and do your hair for girls, but not for your husband?"

I laughed it off, saying I do look nice when I go out with Hubster, but that spending Saturday afternoons curled up on the couch watching college football together, while one of my favorite things, hardly inspires me to put that extra effort in the my hair and makeup or wear a pair of sexy shoes.

I've always put more effort into looking nice when I go out with girls. And up until yesterday, I didn't really think anything about it.

Maybe I don't feel the need to impress men anymore. I'm happily married to Hubster, and attention from any other male just really doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean that I've given up on impressing Hubster either. Although after 8 1/2 years, impressing someone just by doing your hair is a little harder. Although I have been complimented just on managing to get dressed post call, so maybe it's not. Hubster and I have just grown comfortable with each other, like an old pair of jeans or shoes that are the more comfortable thing you own.

But does all that mean I feel the need to impress other women?

I've come to the conclusion that women are much harder on other women than men are about other men. In an instant, we draw conclusion and make assumptions about other women based on their clothes, their body type, their posture, their company. We let other women make us feel self-conscious about ourselves more than any man ever could.

But I don't think that had anything to do with why I word lipstick and heels last night.

I don't think the women I was with last night would judge me if I had come looking like I do every other day of the week, like the harried, fatigued, mother-of-two, 80-hours-a-week-resident that I am. I don't think the women I was with last night would have noticed, or cared, if I had worn my work clothes out. I don't think the women I was with last night judge me for the extra "baby" weight I carry.

No. Sometimes pink and glitter and make-up are just sitting around, waiting for an excuse. And last night was mine.

Ugly Shoes

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

When Hubster and I first started dating, I loved everything about him. His humor, his honesty, his work ethic, the way he treated his mother.

Okay, I loved nearly everything about him.

He did own a gray and blue plaid shirt and a hideous pair of black loafers. Both of which he wore a little too regularly. Sometimes together.

I'm sure someone out there is going to shout, or at least think to themselves: Shallow! How could any one let clothes even be an issue?

I didn't. Obviously, they weren't that big of an issue, because I've been happily married to the man for 8 years.

But, seriously, if you could have seen these shoes and shirt, you would understand.

During the first year of our marriage, the black, now holey loafers, and plaid, now stained, shirt, somehow "disappeared." There is still no telling, even to this day, exactly what happened to them.

That shirt was not the only shirt to get lost, misplaced, or removed from the closet. Sometimes, Hubster knew. Sometimes he didn't. I justified the removal of holey T-shirts, lumpy sweaters, and strange patterned button up shirts with the fact that I replaced them with new, nice shirts. Gap, Eddie Bauer, and Express. Clothes any guy should love.

It took me two years to realize exactly what was going on. I was madly in love with Hubster. While not perfect, he was an amazing husband, and then father. He never complained. He never yelled, he worked hard, and whenever someone needed help, he never said no. Even with all that, I was falling into the trap that so many women do.

The hope we can change our husband.

Women who marry abusive men, who think if only they love the man enough, he will learn to be kind and gentle. Women who marry party boys, positive they can "domesticate" them. Women who marry workaholics, convinced that this is only a phase, that that someday, when they are successful, there will be time for children.

It also happens in the littler things. A woman wants her husband to be a reader of classic novels, or a travel enthusiast, or cooking show watcher. Women, who marry men with ugly clothes and think they can turn them into J. Crew models.

It took me a while to realize that I was trying to change Hubster into someone he wasn't. He was always going to be more comfortable in a pair of jeans and a old T-shirt than he ever was in a pair of khakis and a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled part way up. Fashion was never, ever going to be a big deal to him. I could have kept pushing. I could end up like the woman I knew who bought all her husband's clothes and laid them out for him each morning, because it was that important to her.

Or I could realize that I loved the person Hubster already was.

And that included his overly casual fashion (seriously...I've had to tell him that jeans were not appropriate for a wedding.) He continues to be one of the best people I know.

Even if he is still missing one pair of loafers.

My boys are lucky

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Hubster is a great dad.

When I tell him this, he just shrugs and mentions the times when he gets frustrated with the boys, or is too tough on them.

I didn't say he was a perfect dad. Just an absolutely fantastic one.

He loves being the father of our two boys. He wants to share everything that he did as a kid with them. From learning how to shoot a slingshot, to catching caterpillars, to watching old cartoons.

One of my favorite things is to see all three of my boys on the couch together, giggling loudly to Tom and Jerry.

After Bug was born, and Hubster offered to take him for a diaper change, my mother-in-law stated she was surprised that he was so willing to be involved like that. I guess after raising him as a teenager that did everything he could to get out of chores, seeing her son willingly change diapers, warm bottles, and supervise bath time would be surprising.

But it has never surprised me. We love being a family together.

It may not have surprised me, but it sure makes me happy.

Happy Father's Day, Hubster!

Rules of Engagement

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Hubster and I don't fight.

When I tell people this, there is usually the reaction that either I am lying or delusional. Some people have gone so far as to say that if we don't fight, it must mean that our relationship lacks passion; that fighting is "healthy" for relationships.

I disagree. Fighting is not necessary. Or beneficial.

When I say that we don't fight, I don't mean to imply that we never disagree. It would be unrealistic to think that two individuals would agree on everything. There are a multitude of things that we disagree about.

But we don't fight about it.

It's not always easy. Probably more for me, because I get very worked up over things and cry easily.

But we have rules. Rules for disagreements that have prevented us from fighting.

I'm not calling myself a relationship expert. And I'm not bragging. Or trying to say that my relationship is better than someone else's. But these rules have worked well for us. And I wanted to share them. Just in case.

Here they are..

1. Keep on subject. Don't bring up old arguments. Don't add, "And do you know what else bothers me...?"

2. Don't call names. Ever.

3. Don't attack the other person's occupation.

4. Don't attack the other person's education.

5. Don't attack the other person's family members.

6. Don't break things. Or slam doors.

7. It's okay to leave the room. But don't storm out.

8. If you need to, take a time out. If the conversation is getting heated, just stop talking, wait until you are calmed down, then try again.

9. Avoid talking about topics you disagree about in front of other people (related or not). It may just embarrass the other person and add more emotional fuel to the fire.

10. Don't yell.

I'm sure that I'm making this sound overly simplistic and easy. I'm not saying that. But it gets easier with practice.

Using these rules, we've gone eight years of marriage without a fight. (And please note: I did say fight, not disagreement. Just wanted to clarify that point one more time.)

I'm working on a list of rules about how to approach my children. Because I can get grumpy with them. More than I should. I've raised my voice to my children. While Hubster and I have never raised our voices to each other.

(However, it is true that Hubster does not color with marker on the furniture, or hit his siblings with baseball bats, or dump bowls of applesauce on the floor. He also does not try walking as slowly as possible when I am in a hurry. Or lick windows in stores.)

I realized just the other day that I need rules for me regarding them.

That's a work in progress.

There is one more things. For when all other rules fail. I love the person sitting across from me. Is winning this disagreement really more important than their feelings?

The goal of our marriage was not to sacrifice things we believe in or feel passionately all for the sake of just being able to say that we've never had a fight. I could just start agreeing with everything Hubster says, for no other reason than to keep the peace. But that would make our relationship less meaningful.

The goal was to be able to trust each other enough to feel that we can express our opinion, even if it differs from that of the other person, without being attacked.

That in this world, so full of people treating each other so horribly, that our marriage can be a safe haven.

For Better or For Worse

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Today is day that Hubster and I have been married for eight years.

Those years have flown by. Hopefully by saying that, you can tell how happy I've been during these eight years.

It is no secret that we are blissfully happy.

I've very lucky. I'm sure that there is no other person in the world like Hubster. No one else would have put up with me this long. He makes me happy every. single. day.

The way things started out, you might not have guess it.

And when I say started out, I don't mean how things were when we were dating, or when we were engaged, or when we were first married. We were just as blissfully happy during those times as we are now.

When I start "started out," I mean just that.

The wedding day.

Hubster and I don't go to a single wedding or reception without thinking of our own. And what a complete disaster it was.

Oh, my handmade dress was wonderful, the flowers divine, the flower girls darling, Hubster dashing in his tux, the cake delicious, the location beautiful.

I know, it sounds great, right?

Well, let me set the stage.

My parents filled for bankruptcy around the same time. Both Hubster and I were in college. There was no money for this whole affair. We briefly talked about postponing the wedding, but decided there was no real benefit for us in doing that.

So we did the wedding on a shoe string. As in, so little, I can't really mention it here (you would die of shock.)

And we did it mostly by ourselves. Make the food, set up the ceremony and reception location.

Which resulted in us walking down the aisle an hour late. After many of my friends had given up and left. In 100 degree weather.

The guy doing the ceremony talked about making up after fights and forgot the rings.

My dear mother in law had invited some of Hubster's relatives to sing (unknown to either of us.)

When we were going around greeting guests, people kept complaining about the weather.

Do I wish that things could have gone better? Yes. Do I regret some of the decisions and circumstances around the wedding? Absolutely. Do I feel sad every time I go to someone else's exquisite reception? Yeah.

After all, the wedding day is the one that nearly every girl plans for the moment she is five years old.

Would I trade what I have with Hubster, trust, support, and love, for the most amazing wedding of all time?

Not a chance!

Another Playoff, Another Headache

Thursday, April 23, 2009

So, you may or may not know (and based on who is most likely to be reading this, I'm going with not knowing) that the NBA playoffs are going on right now. (As in basketball, for those who are already lost.)

Years ago, I probably would have been in a similar state of oblivion. Sports were just not part of my life until I met Hubster.

Actually, let me revise that. Sports were not part of my life until I married Hubster.

Because for the couple years we dated, we never watched sports together. We did go to one basketball game with my dad and brothers, but that was it. Never once watched a single game on television, never talked about draft possibilities, never talked trades.

I knew that Hubster loved sports. But I didn't quite understand until we got married. And football season came.

There were moments when I thought, who is this crazy, screaming, foul-mouthed, couch-slapping, jumping fanatic I've married? Sports turn my normally mild-mannered, soft-spoken, laid-back Dr. Jekyll into a screaming, name-calling Mr. Hyde.

Our living room, no, the whole house, is filled with "Worthless!!" "Overpaid slackers!!!" "Suck wads." "Sorry excuse of a point guard!" (Oh, I failed to mention that most appearances of maturity go out the window as well.)

And playoffs are the worst.

Because everyone gets their hopes up, even though they know that their team has no hope of getting beyond the first round. But playing a team much better than yours is apparently no excuse for losing.

Hubster's NBA team is the Jazz. For obvious geographical reasons. And in this season's playoffs, the Jazz are playing the LA Lakers. And one thing that you should know about Jazz fans. They hate the Lakers.


Don't get me wrong. I love the NBA playoffs. I love that the Jazz are in the playoffs so that I can cheer them on, and hope for the upset. Although I do it without the screaming, couch-hitting, name-calling, and jumping.

I've gotten used to Hubster's game-day rants. In fact, I've come to find it somewhat enduring. That he actually has a venue to act like that is wonderful. (Unlike me, who thinks pretty much occasion is okay to act in an overly emotional way.) And I don't take it personally anymore.

And although I hope the Jazz do well, I really just appreciate it when it's all over.

Not in my job description

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Last week, I wrote that Hubster and I did everything equally. That we shared all tasks, and willingly made up the slack when the other was stressed out of their mind and unable to function (which we take turns at about every other week.)

Well, I lied.

There are things that I simply will NOT do.

And I'm not talking about cleaning up puke, defusing exploding diapers, or cleaning up "what on EARTH is that?!!" stuff on the floor.

We both do that.

What I'm talking about it much worse.

I DO NOT smell suspicious food in the refrigerator.

Is that milk still good? I don't know, you smell it.

How long has this casserole been in here? I don't know, you take the lid off the tubberware container and look at the stuff.

Do we have any tomatoes? I don't know, you go digging around in the back of the produce drawer and tell me if everything is still recognizable.

I just can't bring myself to do it. I have puked into the kitchen sink after opening a three-day-old bottle. I'm pretty sure that smelling a may-or-may-not-be-expired gallon of milk, and then tasting it just to be sure, and having either one of those prove that, yes, indeed, the milk is bad, would ruin my ability to cook for at least a week.

And that would be bad. Because cooking is the one thing that Hubster does NOT do.

(Oh, and I don't kill spiders.)

Wearing the Pants

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

I really hate that phrase. But you hear it all the time.

"Who wears the pants in this relationship?"

I feel very lucky. Hubster and I have an amazing relationship. Most of what I do is due to the support and strength I draw from that relationship.

Both of us grew up surrounded by examples of very traditional gender roles. Husband goes to work, makes the money. Wife has the children, stays home, keeps house.

And while we both have deep-rooted appreciation for our mothers and their "stay-at-home" roles in our lives, we have done things differently.

While I technically have not "worked" (as in brought home a paycheck), I have spent the equivalent of two full-time jobs getting first my undergraduate degree and then my medical degree.

Hubster has always been 100% supportive of this.

Hubster has worked full-time, and gone to school part-time.

Our boys have spent a lot of time in daycare, a place neither Hubster nor I spent any time in as children. But given our time, we both take equal care of the boys. Hubster has changed just as many diapers as I have. He bathes the boys probably more often than I do. He gets up with them in the night. We both have stayed home from work to be with them when they are sick.

We both take out the gabage, do dishes, and put away laundry.

We have not done things "traditionally."

And even with that frame of reference, things are about to dramatically change. When I start my residency in June, I will have a paying job. One that pays the same as Hubster's current job. When we move to Iowa, Hubster will spend most of the first few months at home with our boys. And then he is going to graduate school.

Things are shifting. I will be the money-maker. Hubster will be the student. And we will both continue to be the joint care providers for our boys. (With the help of some daytime paid child care.)

I didn't go to medical school with the intention of being the main provider for our family. I went because I could, it was an amazing opportunity, and because it did offer the possibility that things would eventually be better for our family.

We both knew that these changes were going to occur. But sometimes the changes feel overwhelming. I worry that Hubster will feel usurped in his role as "provider." (Even though he constantly reassures me that he doesn't and won't.)

(I also worry about Hubster being in charge of meals while I'm working 80 hours a week. Because he really is NOT a good cook.)

How important are gender roles to you? If things were suddenly reversed, how do you think you or your significant other would cope? Is your image of you flexible enough to allow what is best for the family to occur, even with the chance of wounded pride to yourself?

So, when people ask, "Who wears the pants in this relationship?" I don't know what to say.

This relationship is a two way street, with mutual responsiblity and respect, with flexible roles, and people that are doing the best to adapt to whatever life gives them.

Another Year Older

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Today is my birthday.

And I'm 27.



At least I think I am. Okay, I did that math again. Yep. I'm 27.

The thing is, I've been lying about my age for the last several years. I've been 27 since I was probably 24 or 25.

And you might ask yourself, why would any woman lie about her age and make herself older?!

Well, for a couple reasons.

I work in a field where age is definitely an asset. People want their doctor to be older than they are. They don't want someone 10, 20, 30 years younger than they are telling them to quit smoking, eat healthier, exercise more, prescribe them medication.

Isn't that the image we all have of physicians? That they are the "older and wiser" one? Not the "wow, you look like you are in high school" person that looks like they might have wandered into the exam room by accident? I had lots of patients ask me throughout medical school how old I was. I used to tell my real age. And I got a lot of "wow, you're so young." Or "you're just a baby."

So, pretty early on, I added a couple years. Just to build rapport with my patients.

But the real reason I did it was, well, more cowardly than that.

See, I got married when I was young. Nineteen years old to be exact. I took a lot of flack for it at the time, and occasionally I still do. And looking back, maybe we should have waited. But we didn't.

And we had our first child a year and a half later. When I was 20.

When people would ask about kids, a question would always follow, "So how old are your kids?" After that, they would look at me strange and say, "And how old are you? How long have you been married?"

I could always seeing them doing the math in their head, just a little too quickly. "So you were only 19 when you got married?" Yep, there it is.

I got tired of seeing people doing that math in their head. I got tired of feeling that the person I was talking to was judgmental about my getting married young.

And so I got around it by adding a couple years to my age.

And after a while, I had a hard time remembering my real age.

But I'm done with lying about my age.

So I got married when I was 19. I have the most amazing marriage. More successful than most of my friends. We are one of the happiest couples we know. We don't fight. Even approaching 8 years of marriage, we still love to be together, are supportive, and have not run out of things to talk about.

So I had kids when I was 20. My children are happy, healthy, well adjusted boys. We do things as a family. They love being home.

So I did these things younger than most. I have an amazing profession. I finished both undergraduate and medical school married and with children.

I don't think I have anything to be embarrassed about.

So, everyone out there...I'm 27.

I'm done with waiting

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

After all the drama and build up, the match is tomorrow.

The not knowing is truly the worst. Worse than where I might end up. Worse than not getting my first choice. It's just going months and months without knowing. Not being able to plan.

I'm not as nervous as I thought I would be. I think my brain has shut off just a little. The real nerves will come, I think, tomorrow morning, as I'm holding my envelope with my family.

I'm trying to keep perspective about this. Building up to this day, it feels like Match Day is the most important day of my life. But it's not. It will never compare with my wedding day, the birth of my sons, or even the day I was accepted to medical school. This, instead of being a milestone, feels a little more like a speed bump. Just one more hoop to jump through.

The agony of waiting isn't anything like trying to create the rank list. That was hard. Every aspect of compromise, everything that marriages and relationships are founded on, was put to use.

Early on in the interview process, I thought I had found my perfect program. I loved the program. I loved the people. I loved the city. If they had offered me a position right then and there, I would have taken it without a second thought. I called Hubster in delight. "I've found it!" I said gleefully.

However, it was not to be. The graduate program there was a poor fit for Hubster. As in, not a snowball's chance. So, sick to my stomach, I tried to put my dream program out of sight, out of mind.

Everything worked out. Later in the interview process, I went to a program that, well, just felt right. The more we thought about it, the better it felt. In fact, it felt right enough of both Hubster and me that I was able to easily forget the initial dream residency.

That's what tomorrow is really about. It's the culmination of sacrifices on both my part and my family's part. It's evidence that compromise works for everyone.

And most importantly, it's the end of the waiting.