Catch it to Me (Part I): Of Wives and Wine

Old habits die.

Like lighbulbs and grandmas.

Sometimes its best not to watch.

My wife and I used to have a great habit.

She would come home, change into something comfortable and decidedly unsexy. Something with pastels and paisley patterns.

We would sit down to dinner and try to convince the twelve year old that one more piece of broccoli wasn't going to kill him. We would clear the table, grab a bottle of wine, a pack of cigarettes, and slip out to our little patio.

Then we would talk.

That's right, would actually talk.

Not the kind of married person talk that's all about how tired we are, or how long our days were, or how dirty the house is.

Real talk.

Movies, music, friends, family.

Dreams.

It was those talks where we decided to give up on going to LA. It was those talks when we decided to bring Calvin into this world. And when she was pregnant and the cigarettes were replaced with carrot sticks and the wine was replaced with cranberry juice, we still talked.

But then our patio was replaced by a back yard. And the twelve year old was replaced with a fifteen year old. Our dream of parenthood turned into a three year old. The carrots were replaced again by cigarettes and the cranberry juice didn't last 48hrs after we came home from the delivery room. Somewhere in there, the talking died too.

But old habits die hard.

As we sat one day as we lounged in our patio furnature, a caraf of peaches soaking in pinot noir resting on the table between us, we started talking again.

But the one common thread that binds all children together, the one genetic trait that can't be breeded out by any known technique, is the fact that when the parents are talking, the fighting will begin. (Its the same chromosome that inspires yelling when the phone rings)

Something shatters, a cry of glee turns to a scream of pain. "Stop it" "stop it!" they yell. Then the little one is throw out the back yard door and hits the ground running. The wife runs in the house to yell at the bigger one.

Then the game begins.

As the wife is sorting out the argument, the little one and I begin a friendly game of catch. Actually its more like I throw, he watches the ball hit him in the face, then he runs the ball back to me. Boys rule.

But then its all sorted out and the wife returns foolishly hoping that we could relive this old habit of ours. She sits, fills her wine glass, and begins talking were she left off.

But of course, the little one will have none of this.

"Be quiet mamma! Catch it to me, daddy, catch it to me!"

I mourn the death of our talk. But "catch it to me" sounds so cool.