It's the Little Things

When I commented on someone else's blog that actions speak louder than words, I got to thinking about my husband's actions lately. I've been watching his moods closely, because he tends to swing wildly during times of stress. As right-brained and attention deficit as he is, this move could have blown him out of the water. I learned a long time ago, however, that as long as he has a discrete task -- set up the stereo, hook up the surround sound, get the wireless working, hang shelves in the closet -- and plenty of time to regroup between each task, he's good to go.

So far, he's been great. Granted, he's only been here full time for a couple days, but he just keeps making me smile. He was not nearly so engaged when we set up our house in the small town. Perhaps it's because there are fewer distractions -- he's not on call for work yet, there is no Other Woman, the people who normally ask him to come out and play live miles and miles away -- but he hung with me pretty much the entire weekend to get things unpacked and put away.

After his new employee orientation session ended early yesterday, he called me from the car and told me he was going to cook the inaugural dinner in our kitchen. He's a pretty good, though somewhat haphazard cook, so I wasn't sure what to expect when I walked through the door. What I got was the meal of my dreams: he picked up on a throw-away comment I made this weekend about craving a perfectly roasted chicken, and made one for me. Roast chicken can be tricky, but he pulled it off. I don't think any dinner, even in the finest restaurant, would have made me happier. Best of all, however, was the way he beamed with delight that he got it so right.

Needless to say, I'm pleased with how it's going. I just wish I could stop flashing back to how awful he was when I moved to the small town. I would dearly love to stop seeing everything he does -- both good and bad -- through that filter. I desperately want to stop looking for hidden motives. More than anything, I want to take what he does, and especially what he says, at face value. But I can't help myself. Those memories are still too potent: every time I think I've made progress, something happens to remind me, and I'm back where I started.

Still, dinner last night was perfect.


The Wife Who Knows