Equal Measures

Marriage is supposed to happen in equal measures, I'm pretty sure. But this morning, I mean, just now, when I leaned over to pour milk out of the little pitcher into my cup, and found that there was none, I realized how very unequal it is.

I've probably said before, but for the last thirteen and a half years, except for very rare occasions of Matt going off to a conference or meeting or something, I have woken to the sound of him very gently lowering a wooden tray containing a metal tea pot (one of those hotel/restaurant ones from civilized countries like Mali and France), a cup (not just any cup, not like a big chunky mug, but nor delicate china, and the shape matters a lot), and a small pitcher of milk onto my bedside table. He doesn't make barely any noise, in setting it down, and he never says “Good Morning” or anything like that. He just puts it down and backs quietly away and carries on with his life.

Now, you might say, 'well, that's nice', but if you think, tragically, that marriage is in equal measures, it should be that there's something that I do really clever like that. I mean, I do set up his coffee the night before. I rinse out his pot and grind the beans. And, as I point out whenever it might come up, I gave birth six times and once the baby was enormous. And I do other things, like fail at keeping house and fail at doing the laundry and fail at homeschooling the children. All for him, don't you know, well, I mean, and for Jesus or something. But still, I do like to keep track of how we're measuring up. It's ok for me to blow off the kitchen because he didn't pour salt over the ice outside. Not that I would ever be so bald about it, of course, keeping accounts like that. It's got to be much much much less obvious.

So anyway, I leaned over to pour the milk this morning and nothing poured out into my cup. And I was faced with a delimma. I mean, Matt has his early morning hours tightly scheduled. The delivery of tea is slotted right in at a particular moment. But, I mean, did I really want to put my feet out onto the cold floor and pad all the way downstairs and get some myself? I just couldn't cope with the idea. So I texted, “Can I have some milk?” And then I lay here and felt really guilty. Gosh, would it kill me to just get up and get some milk? What a jerk I am, texting for milk. Began to pray he wouldn't get the text, that he had left his phone on his desk or something, and was far away and wouldn't hear it ding. Started to listen to Judges about God purposefully leaving the Perrezites and the Hittites and everybody in the land to afflict Israel for being so evil. Felt even more terrible.

And then there was some crashing and Matt appeared, wearing all the coats in the house as far as I could tell, in readiness to go out into this wretched frigid landscape to walk, bearing a gallon of milk, a portion of which he poured into my pitcher. Writhed spiritually, with guilt and sorrow, and asked him how he was. He pulled out an earbud and veritably shouted, “I'm so so so sorry! I can't believe I forgot!” and smiled a nice smile and clumped back down the stairs.

There isn't anyway for it to measure up, in this marriage. However disappointing it may be for me, there isn't anyway I can equal the morning tea ritual. And what am I going to do? Really try? I wouldn't even know where to start.