Tips for a Happy Marriage

I saw you today. I drove by just as you were standing on the hill taking pictures. The autumn leaves were brilliant confetti beneath your feet. 

You looked lovely.

I have to be honest. Sometimes I look at new brides and think oh, sweet Jesus.

It’s not that I’m cynical. I’ve just been around awhile.

My husband Joe and I have been married for twenty-four years. We’ve moved twice. We have five kids, and one dog.

It’s easy to explain our life together in terms of time and numbers, and yet it is anything but years and digits.

It is a first kiss.

A sonogram.

A family.

Autism. 

Autism humbles you. I don’t know how else to describe it. 

Before we got married, Joe and I did something called Pre-Cana. It was a preparation course our church recommended. We sat in this couple’s living room while their dark-haired toddler scooted around our feet. 

We answered questions about how we’ll spend the holidays, how we’ll handle a budget, where we’d like to live.

No one asked what it would be like to have a special-needs child together.

A child who never sleeps, runs away every chance has, screams swear words at the top of his lungs, struggles to make sense of the social landscape, takes medicine every day, gets suspended in middle school.

Would it have mattered? No. Probably not. But maybe it would have lodged something tiny and flickering in my subconscious. And when the day came and our son Jack was diagnosed with autism, I would have been more prepared.

When it comes to marriage, there is no instruction manual. There is no how-to booklet for navigating the tricky waters of a combined life. 

From this point forward you will share the same meal, bed, house, weekends, family.

There will be moments where you feel tired of having your story tied up with his.

Childhood baggage, parenting styles, his traditions, your traditions. 

A few days ago, Joe and I had a terrible argument.

We stood in the kitchen shouting at each other. I was angry and frustrated. At the exact same time, I wanted him to fold me in his arms and hold me.

What did we argue about, you ask?

Everything.

Nothing. 

Teenagers, the holidays, money, autism.

What can I say? The clutter of life wears us down sometimes. 

We didn’t talk for the rest of the day. I hate this. So many things happened but I couldn’t tell him because I was teaching him a good lesson about how right I was.

A squirrel got his head stuck in the birdfeeder, the UPS guy ran over a package on his way down the driveway, I heard an old song on the radio we both love.

It was as though none of it happened at all. Not the silly squirrel or the package or the song.

Nothing is real until I tell it to Joe. 

Since we’ve met, we’ve argued about sunscreen, Oreos, the right way to boil pasta, the best kind of vacation, where we should spend Easter, how much a new couch should cost.

You will, too. I am sorry to say it, but it is true. You will argue. 

One thing I want to say is the whole do-not-go-to-bed angry is a crock-of-you-know-what.

The worst words we’ve ever said to each other were when the clock creeped towards darkness. Remember when your mother said nothing good happens after midnight? She was right. 

Go to bed. Lie there and think your dark, murderous thoughts. Listen to his breathing. Pull the covers tight and take your own deep breaths, in through the nose and out through your mouth. 

You see, sleep is the elixir. It is the solution to many marital problems. You might not wake relaxed, but you will wake up ready to begin again. You will put waffles in the toaster. You’ll get the kids on the bus. Life resumes.

Yes, you will argue. But you will come back to one another. Time and time again you will learn new ways to do this.

The next day Joe stood in my office. He untangled a set of lights I’d been meaning to hang, long strands with stars dangling from the bottom. Quietly, he undid the knots and loops until he had one string.

As afternoon faded outside the windows, he hung them.

I looked at my computer while he did this. I knew he was telling me something, but I wasn’t ready to hear it.

There is no manual for marriage, it’s true.

Marriage is small pockets of time—moments of hope, and love, and loss, all mixed up with old-fashioned grit.

Funny birthday cards, goofy texts, the silent treatment, stolen kisses, give-and-take, compromise, failed attempts, and new beginnings. 

Morning coffee, smiles across the dinner table, pretty lights untangled.

It’s just you, him, and this wildly ordinary life you are trying to build.

One day you will look up from our computer and see him standing before you, his hands full of stars.

You’ll watch his silhouette against the dusky night and you will realize.

He holds up half your sky.

He holds up half my sky.

Nothing is real until I tell him.