love

Love. It is a many-splendored thing, is it not? It pushes us to be willing to commit to sharing our lives with one person. Greg and I share a lot: children, a home, a freakin’ Volvo, a toothbrush (not on purpose--they look an awful lot a like), once a pair of jeans. The girls have put away our laundry in the past, and imagine my surprise when I pulled on some jeans only to find I couldn’t button them. I’m not bragging that my husband has a smaller waist than I do, and no butt, apparently, but I’m not ashamed either. When we were dating he once told me I have “abnormally large hips.” He meant this as a compliment, mind you, as it was a sign of virility and health. It’s a small wonder I went on to carry his two children with those thankfully large hips of mine…but I feel as though I’ve gotten sidetracked.

Friday I made sure I got home from work on time because I knew my dad was picking up the girls for an overnight stay. I was hungry, and really looking forward to a glass of wine as I made dinner. First thing Greg did after the girls left was throw on his garage-clothes, which was more than fine with me, as I love nothing more than taking my time cooking and watching what I want (Scandal anyone?) with no judgments whatsoever from the peanut gallery. But before he headed to the garage he said he needed to drop off a package at the post office, as it had to be postmarked that day. I, being someone who speaks really loudly in the “acts of service” love language, offered to do it for him. As I was driving off, he flagged me down--because it’s easier to run a block after a car than to call--and asked breathlessly if I could also pick up some brake cleaner. I think I grunted "fine." (I like to be in control of my service gifts, you see.) Anyhow, I dropped off the package, then ran into AutoZone, where a man reminiscent of my new best friend Aaron at the Verizon store (long hair, might be afraid of him in a dark alley, but so very kind and helpful) came over and said, “It looks like you’re on a mission. Can I help you?” And he did, as there are fifteen different kinds of brake cleaner, and I couldn’t care less about the differences. My next stop was just across the street at Walgreens, as I wanted to pick up a Redbox movie for myself if Greg was going to be working on the car all night. Nothing looked great, but I settled on Bridget Jones’ Baby (B-).

Good Heavens, where is she going with this ‘story’?! Just relax. Maybe grab yourself some wine.

So, I ran into the store, as I had a hankering for some wasabi almonds, and I was almost smacked down by all of the Valentine’s Day paraphernalia everywhere. I honestly don’t even think twice about whether to get Greg something for Valentine’s Day. We decided long ago that it’s…how did Greg put it, “a consumer holiday created by the Hallmark industry to guilt people into spending money to show their love.” And I’m more than fine with that, because, perhaps unlike a lot of women, I don’t eat too much chocolate (I'm slightly allergic to it), I do all the budgeting at home (we don’t have a line-item for Valentine’s Day), and cut flowers make me nervous (they’re dying a slow death). But, I thought to myself, if I was treating myself to a movie, wine and wasabi nuts, the least I could do is spring for a Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar for Greg. So I did.

As I was driving home, it hit me why I don’t feel guilty about ignoring Valentine’s-day: gifts are neither of our love languages! I speak my language of acts of service (we tend to speak our own love languages the most) every day when I make coffee, lunch and supper for him, clean the house, do the laundry, take out the trash, pay the bills, do the taxes…well, you get it. And he speaks his language of love every time he massages my head, encourages me to write more, tells me I have large hips, and spends the night with the Volvo or fixing a part of our house. Though, if we were to be completely honest, we’d admit that I’m cleaning the house for myself, and he’s fixing the car for himself. But maybe that’s ok. If you’re not going to scratch someone else’s back, you might as well scratch your own, cause you know exactly where you’re itchy! Am I right?! Though this would fly in the face of the love languages teachings, so I’m not saying to always do this.

Real quick, according to the Love Languages theory, there are five ways we show and feel love—physical touch, acts of service, gifts, words of affirmation, and quality time. Everyone has one or two main ones, and as previously mentioned, we tend to speak our own languages. Which is fine, except we found relatively early on in our marriage that if I’d only speaking my languages (acts of service and acts of service), Greg won’t feel loved (as his are physical touch and words of affirmation), and vice versa. Then, throw into the mix children (they speak languages too) and you’re screwed. You can find out your love language by taking a quiz, OR, you can just watch and see what language your loved ones speak the most, and voila, that’s it!

The beautiful thing is when you learn to speak your family’s languages from time to time! Play a game with Kate, tell Elia that she really is as great a singer as Taylor Swift, give Greg a hug, and clean my house! (My mother-in-law actually did this for me once, and I could have married her—had I not already married her son.) We are certainly not going to get it right even 50% of the time, but I think that feeling securely loved is one of the best gifts we can give to our children and our spouse.

So, for Valentine’s day, you can go ahead and grab those token chocolates and roses, but make good and sure that your Love’s language is gifts, otherwise you may have just wasted $48.60. (Yeah, I have no idea how much these things cost.)

Or instead, write a note like this for Greg,

spend the morning with Kate at the dentist getting her two baby teeth extracted, and let Elia get hot lunch (I’m actually still not super clear on Elia’s love languages--is that bad?) and it won’t cost you a penny. Well, hot lunch is $2.50, and I’m sure we’ll see a bill from the dentist, but you get the idea. Because when we speak to someone in the language they best understand, we don’t have to shout, and what’s not to love about that?