Everything was fine in the beginning.  Before children, we went on long drives and had chunks of time to discuss ideas.  We could argue loudly and go to sleep angry.  We could stop at a convenience store and go in at the same time to buy soda or go wee-wee.

Those days are long gone. 

The last descent conversation we had was right before we found out we were expecting.

As soon as the news sunk in my thoughts turned to planning an extravagant nursery (we could only afford a cradle next to our bed.)  My husband’s thoughts turned towards how to pay for everything we would need (priority one: save for cradle.)  Then there were the months of nausea, the aches and pains of pregnancy.  Our conversations took a nose dive.

After the baby arrived, it was easy to see how talking diminished; my body was in some degree of pain.  I couldn’t see down the hallway straight, let alone form a complete sentence, from lack of sleep.  And relationship roles somehow shifted, leading me to be snippy and grumpy.

In the toddler years, we were both busy worrying about why junior cried when he was put in his crib, why on earth his poop was orange three days a week, and if he was getting enough interaction with playmates.  When he was sound asleep, we flopped on the couch and struggled to remember what we had done that day.

Then the next child came along.  At night we were so excited for free time that armchairs and television became our best friends. Any conversations we started were met with, “Shhh!  I can’t hear my show over your talking.”  Or, “Not now.  It’s a new episode.  Let’s come back to your thing later.”

The dinner table seems to be the worse place for trying to talk.  Last night I was determined to get through one topic without interruption.  I put everything on the table the kids could possibly ask for later:  milk, a new fork for the one that would fall, and extra napkins.

Near the end of the meal, my husband finally gave up trying to talk about his new boss at work.  My son was jumping up and down on my lap, his knees jabbing into my fleshy thighs, while my eyelid twitched involuntarily.  All meals at the dinner table now include my new tick.

Perhaps when the kids are grown and gone from the house, we’ll go back and finish the conversation we left dangling so long ago:  “So, do you think we’re ready to have kids?”

“Onions,” he answered.

“Right.  And then next came the…”

“Chiles.”

“Of course!” I responded, taking notes under the table.

By the third recipe he began to get suspicious. 

“So how many cans of soup do you add to the sauce?” I asked.  His fork dropped to his plate.

“Didn’t your mom teach you how to cook?  What recipes do you know?” he demanded.

I paused to think.  There was the barbecue ribs recipe I learned from him the previous month.  Spaghetti seemed easy (although it never tasted quite right.)  Did frozen dinners count?

“What are you going to cook your husband when you get married someday?” he asked.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have ditched collecting an assortment of recipes.  Instead, I would have focused my assault on one front:  lasagna. 

There were clues early on it would be important in our marriage.  The night my husband proposed, I called from work to hear banging and crashing in the background. 

“What are you doing to my apartment?” I asked in alarm.

“Nothing.  You’ll see,” he said.  When I got home the table was set, candles lit, and a homemade meal of lasagna, garlic bread and salad awaited.

That was the last descent lasagna we ever ate.

I didn’t even try to make lasagna the first years of our marriage.  I made the brilliant discovery that everything tasted better fried and our dinners took off down clogged artery boulevard.  That road ended when I gained 20 pounds and my dietician threatened, “You can’t fry foods!  You had better have lost weight by your next appointment!”

The first lasagna I made came from a friend’s recipe.  “It’s so easy!” she said.  “Use no-bake noodles, a little bit of spinach, and lots of sausage.”

I made mine with no-bake noodles (hello cardboard), lots of spinach and a little bit of sausage.

After the first bite my husband said, “Hmm.”

Last summer I found a recipe in the grocery store’s meat department.  I used extra cheese, special sauce I made from scratch and old-fashioned noodles.

After the first bite my husband said, “Hmm.”

Then recently at a play date, a mom shared her recipe for a lasagna dinner everyone asks for.  “It’s so easy!  Use Ragu sauce, brown some meat, dollop cottage cheese and layer with cheddar.”

I strained too much liquid out of the cottage cheese, didn’t have enough mozzarella, and layered meat on top but not sauce.

“Hmm,” my husband said.

My son, for a Kindergartener, is very astute.  He saw a commercial for Stouffer’s lasagna and asked me, “When can we have that for dinner?” 

“Hi, Dad.  So when you make lasagna, what do you use for the first layer?”

©2010, Kim Knuth.  All rights reserved.

I resisted heartily.  From what I remembered of waterbeds, they had a slight design flaw.  You could drop a coin on one corner of the bed and send a series of catastrophic waves to the other corner.

I wasn’t quite ready to set sail and sleep on the high seas.  But my husband was adamant.

“You’ll love it,” he said.

“I’m not sleeping on a riverboat,” I insisted.

“They have new technology now,” he replied.  “It’s called deep-fill.  They include fibers that prevent the water from moving through the bladder quickly.”

“But what if it leaks?” I folded my arms.

“I’ve had mine for years and it’s never leaked.”

“But it’s water.  I’m not sure I want to sleep on water.”

“Trust me.”

In the end I relented.  Within a week of setting up house, we were using my plates, my silverware, my glassware, my towels, my sheets and all of my decorations.  He stood in the kitchen one night and showed me his previous possessions that we were now using in our married life:  four plates, two glasses and one colander.

“I guess we’re getting the waterbed,” I said.

It was great for awhile.  It relieved all the pressure points.  The dull ache on my side disappeared.  When it got too low it could be filled up again.  I hated to admit it, but it even felt – well, dreamy.

The first sign of trouble showed up at the worst time.  (When else?)  I was pregnant with our first child and my husband was out of town on business.  As I got out of bed one night, throwing my legs over the side to get out of the sinking water pit, I felt dampness.  No, my water hadn’t broke, the bed did.

I phoned my husband right away.

“Unzip the top and look inside,” he said.  “Now, lift up the side of the bladder to find where the leak is coming from.”

Sure, if only the hundreds of gallons of water inside didn’t weigh about a thousand pounds. 

Thankfully I could tell it was a small leak that was easily fixed the next day.You’d think the trouble ended there.  It didn’t.

I now have figured out why you don’t see waterbed stores on every corner.  And why to find one you have to drive two hours out of your way and deal with a man named Chuck who looks like a season regular from “Three’s Company.”

It’s because having a bed made out of water is unnatural for the human race, that’s why.  It’s because you have to actually fill it with water –lots of it.  And then you have to add water conditioner.  Every few months.

It’s because you’re supposed to strip the bed, unzip the top, and apply special spray to keep the bladders soft and clean.  Every few months.

It’s because once you fill it with water, you have to heat it.  Otherwise the cold from the water will suck all the living warmth of life out of you.  And if the power goes out, you have to find another place to sleep.  (Expect the power to go out at the worst possible time in your life which will make finding another abode the most inconvenient thing in the world.)

It’s because the bed can’t be moved on a whim or over a spur-of-the-moment decorating idea (pay attention, ladies.)  Moving it is like changing the location of your house.

It’s because if it does leak, you have to fix it right then, at any expense.  A regular mattress will give you time to think about it and save up money for a new one.  A waterbed says, “Drop your plans for this weekend.  You’re now in the market for a new mattress.”

And lastly, it’s because deep inside you know that water is capricious and fickle, and would just love to escape its enclosure and seek its own level -all over your bedroom carpet and downstairs into the garage.

Last week our waterbed leaked the same day our family caught the stomach flu. 

“That’s it!” I announced.  “I’m done with this river cruise!  I need to be on a bed that isn’t made up entirely of a naturally occurring element.”

“They’ve made great strides in air mattresses,” my husband said.

Who knew four plates, two glasses and one colander could cost so much?

©2010, Kim Knuth.  All rights reserved.

And yet just last week my husband found me holed up in our garage.  I was clutching a beauty magazine and skimming through it with a large flashlight.

“I might regret asking, but what exactly are you doing?” he asked.

“I snuck away for eight minutes of ‘me’ time,” I said.  My bangs fell into my eyes and one stray curl stood on end.

“Does ‘me’ time include plans for tonight’s dinner?”

“No.  But ask me why La Mer’s lip balm is next on my list to buy.”

“Is it flavored with almond?”  If nothing, my husband knows how to stay on point.

“It doesn’t say so.”

“Then I think I’ve lost interest.”

Several times a year I make my way, along with the money I’ve been hoarding, to a fancy department store makeup counter.  I bring old tubes that need replacing, empty eye shadow containers, sticks that are down to the nub, and the clippings of products that I’m desperate to own and find a salesgirl to make my dream a reality.

Once home I tuck the new glosses and lipsticks into a special black carrying case used just for them, integrate the new products into my weary yet functional makeup bag, and put the Dior shadows well out of reach of my toddler.  Don’t ask me how I know, but that child takes special pleasure in using her finger to “mix the colors into a rainbow.”

If all of this sounds vaguely familiar then you, too, might be a makeup snob.  Here are other telltale signs:

1)      You’ve collapsed into the nearest makeup chair when the salesgirl informed you they weren’t making “that shade” anymore.

2)      You think the phrase “Wear clean underwear in case of a car accident” is dated, and would replace it with, “In case of a car accident, don’t let me be caught without Chanel.”

3)      You consider it a defining life moment the day you were made aware of the fact that beauty products existed outside of drugstores.  (1985; the daughter of one of my mom’s friends showed me how to use Clinique’s 3-Step Skin Care System.  That woman was a goddess.)

4)      You could not imagine how you would go on living if InStyle magazine stopped publishing the annual “Best Beauty Buys” list.

5)      You secretly believe that any problem can be fixed by stopping by Sephora or the nearest Nordstrom makeup counter.

6)      The details might be getting fuzzy on some of the important numbers in your life (like exact age, weight, or any previous addresses), but you have permanently etched in your mind the shade number of a treasured and expensive makeup product (Dior’s Moisturizing Concealer #410) and could remember it even during extreme emotional duress (Dairy Queen runs out of chocolate ice cream your one treat day of the week.)

If all of this sounds a tad sallow, I agree.  But don’t worry; I’m sure they make the right cream blush for that. 

©2010, Kim Knuth.  All rights reserved.

But I know that come this Valentine’s Day, the secret to love in our house is one hour spent speaking the same language.  He will talk about something I understand, like his experience shopping at the mall, and I will use phrases that can be taken at face value, like “Please bring me a glass of water with ice.”

It’s not always like this.  Most of the year we’re like two foreigners sharing the same home.  Our time together includes lots of squinting, blank stares, absentminded nodding and the occasional burst of excitement, “Yes!  I understood that!”

A good example came several years ago.  My husband and I decided we could still be in love and not include chocolate in the gift-giving ritual.  My husband said, “Instead, get me the new plug-in zip drive.”  What I heard him say was, “Get me something I can zip up when I drive to work.”  When he asked me if I wanted chocolate, I said “That sounds good.”  The evening ended with me yelling, “Do you WANT my rear end to be that big?”

We realized we had a language problem.  I don’t understand half the things he actually says, and he doesn’t pick up on the things I leave unsaid. He speaks man-ese and on its face is a very simple language.  He says things like, “What’s for dinner?” and means it.  I speak woman-ese and that same question translated in our complicated system can mean:  “That same dish again?”  Or, “I expect dinner to be ready now.” 

Love in our house means that most of the time we will be speaking to somebody who 1) has a blank expression on their face (him when I ask, “What do you think my friend Cheryl meant when she said…”, or the look on my face when he talks and I plan next week’s dinner menu in my head), or  2) has an angry look on their face (him as he realizes I’m planning the dinner menu in my head while he’s talking, or me when he doesn’t do something I never said.)

Sometimes I forget the language barrier and ask him a straightforward question.  “What does 64-bit encryption mean?” I asked one night.  I was feeling playful.  As soon as he started to talk I realized I couldn’t follow two words of what he was saying.  He said:  “In cryptography, key length is the size of the key used in a cryptographic algorithm.”  I heard:  “Blah blah blah, key.”  Then, after dinner, he clearly couldn’t understand woman-ese.  I said, “Please clear dinner from the table.”  He heard:  “Move dishes over to counter.”  I walked by later to see a dirty kitchen table covered with salt and pepper shakers, used napkins and crumbs.

This Valentine’s Day, my husband and I definitely won’t splurge on chocolate, probably not on flowers, and jewelry is looking like a big question mark.  But I know we love each other because tomorrow I’ll try to follow his conversation about computer problems at work, and he’ll try to interpret, “We’re getting low on creamer.”

©2010, Kim Knuth.  All rights reserved.

I drank tea in the afternoons.  Sometimes I put milk in it (but that always made it too cold.)  Sometimes I squeezed lemon in it (but one drop too many made it too tart.)  I always put in sugar.

When Starbucks became popular I drank their mochas and became a believer.  But it was just an occasional treat.  I felt proud that I never required it.

Now that I have kids, I require it.  Every morning, right before or during breakfast.  And if I drink it anytime after 10 a.m. the flavor changes and it doesn’t taste the same.

This presents an interesting dilemma that’s new every morning:  Will today be the day I drink my coffee while it’s still hot?

It never is the day.  That day has never come. 

Even when I strain against all the forces pulling my children to do their child-like things, and even when I try to control outside influences from intruding into our home, I end up drinking my morning delight lukewarm.

I’ve tried to make it the minute my feet hit the cold carpet.  But during the time it takes to brew, my children are clamoring for juice and then my son has a meltdown trying to work the remote control.

I’ve set the delay on Mr. Coffee to be ready first thing.  But it always falls on a day we have to be somewhere early and I only get two sips of the whole thing.

I pour my mug right after my shower only to forget that now I have set in motion a countdown to style my hair during the critical drying stage.  If I miss that window of time, my hair refuses to cooperate and will be ruined for the rest of the day.

I pour the coffee right as I’m sitting down to breakfast (cue catastrophe.)  Any number of events can be placed here:  A knock on the door from a delivery man.  An urgent phone call from my husband telling me to reboot his computer.  Son takes favorite toy from daughter causing the end of the world as we know it.  Daughter has a poopy diaper that has been allowed to sit until now and cannot be delayed one more minute.  Must check Facebook page for status updates.  (Okay, so that’s my fault.)

Instead, I decide to go for second prize and indulge in an old-fashioned cup of tea.  I’m allowed to sit and drink it hot from start to finish. 

Yesterday I found a new blend of tea leaves:  “Dark Roast” it said.  Will this be enough to fool my mug, children, and the crowd of delivery men just primed to ring our door bell?

I think it’s an idea worth steeping.

©2010, Kim Knuth.  All rights reserved.

We tried a few of those levers and locks but ran into trouble.  During a two-minute window when the kids were quiet I reached for the cupboard drawer.  When I couldn’t get to the chocolate right away I considered ripping the door off its hinges.  My husband threw away the lock.

If having a latchless home makes us bad parents, it doesn’t stop there.

In our house you can bend down to any outlet and actually push the prongs into one of the plugs.  We used to have the outlets covered with plastic pieces.  But to get them off I had to pry them loose like the Jaws of Life with a large screwdriver.  As soon as I set the piece on the floor one of my children would try to swallow it.

I tried to outsmart them at that point.  Instead of putting the piece on the floor, I put it out of their reach.  I never found a single one after that.  There must be a massive graveyard of plastic pieces in our house, hiding on top of paintings, cupboards, behind dusty knick knacks and old curtains.

If we ever see either of our children get a crazed look in their eye, run to the silverware drawer, grab a fork, and plunge it towards an outlet looking to get electrocuted, we’ll change our policy.

These bad parents also have decorations on their living room tables.  And some are breakable.  We had the audacity to buy glass lamps, and insist our children leave them alone.  We did take everything off for a spell.  But then our living room looked like a piece from Pioneer Living Quarterly.  I told my kids, “Someday you’ll get your first apartment and won’t have a dime to buy any trinkets.  Meanwhile, Mommy wants to put a coaster down for her drink.”

When our daughter was born we stopped doing the one thing that had made us good parents.  Without telling anybody we started letting her sleep with a blanket.  At first we kept it at her waist, then winter came.  One morning I walked in to find her arms as cold as two sticks of salami.

“Quick!” I yelled.  “Lower the blinds and don’t let any of the neighbors in!  We’re about to move the blanket up to her arms!”  Now Cassie sleeps with a whole menagerie of beloved dolls and blankets, and not one of them has tried to smother her while she slept.

Some excellent parents might still be interested in childproofing their cupboards.  But beware:  When you need a quick sugar fix, the lock will also keep you out.

Don’t say you haven’t been warned!

©2010, Kim Knuth.  All rights reserved.

If you were to ask that question in our house the only thing you’d hear is me saying, “I can’t sleep without my fan!”

My poor husband.  He didn’t know when we walked down the aisle that he was promising to love me when I was sick, love us both when we were in the poorhouse, or find a place in his heart for the circulating fan that is my constant nighttime presence.

I can’t really blame him.  It doesn’t have the most efficient design.  I have yet to find one that MMS (Meets My Standards.)  My husband draws my attention to this fact nightly.

During the winter he complains.

“It makes the room too cold.  It’s like sleeping in an icebox,” he says.

“Pull up the covers,” I answer.

During the spring he complains.

“It doesn’t have a filter built in.  It’s stirring up my allergies.”

“Take more allergy meds.”

During the summer he complains.

“It’s too hot in here.  It doesn’t push enough air out.”

“Then stop wearing flannel pajamas,” I suggest.

During the fall he complains.

“It’s too big and awkward.  I keep stubbing my toe on it.”

“Take smaller steps,” I advise.

I’ve weaned myself off of the sleeping mask, and I don’t care which side of the bed I’m sleeping on, but I can’t manage to sleep unless I hear the gentle shhhh of the fan. 

 Last week I tried.  After I spent one minute out of bed using the restroom in the dead of winter, my bed sheets were frozen.  I stirred my husband.

“Honey, is it cold in here for you?” I asked.

“Check the closet,” he snorted.  “I think icicles are hanging from the rods.”

“We could turn up the heat,” I said.

“We’re too cheap,” he retorted.

“That tears it!” I yelled at the fan.  “You won’t beat me!  I’ll show you I don’t need you as a crutch to sleep!”

The next night I left the fan off.  Then I rolled over and waited for sleep to come.

First I listened to my husband snore.  When that grew tedious, I rolled to the other side.  In the kitchen I could hear the refrigerator cycle on and off.  I heard the walls settle down in the garage.  I heard the neighborhood dog bark in his repetitive rhythm, bark, barkbark. 

Hours later I put the pillow over my head.  I still heard the dishwasher turn on, sanitize the silverware, and turn off an hour later.  Lastly I heard the raccoons rifling through our trash.

When I heard the sound of my hair growing, I gave up.

“Where’s the fan remote?” I cried desperately, fumbling through the sheets.

As I finally drifted to sleep, I heard the heat click on.  I determined that the heat and the fan would have to battle it out on their own.  Two hours of sleep was worth it.

©2010, Kim Knuth.  All rights reserved.

I even remember the days of a timed leaving.  I used to do this when I worked outside the home.  I could take a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and exit the house one minute later.

Yesterday it dawned on me that I hadn’t savored that joy in five years. 

Yesterday I had only one errand to make and my son was already at Kindergarten.  That left my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter and me to putter around the house for a leisurely morning.  She watched television while I checked email, nibbled on a warm bagel, and finally changed out of my ratty sweats.

Once I’m wearing decent-looking clothes, however, Relaxed Mom disappears, and Quick Mom arrives.  I expect us to leave the house shortly thereafter.

“Let’s go!” I announced, emerging from my room wearing clothes with no stains, spills, or tears.

“Huh?” my daughter burped.  She was lying in a ball watching her favorite cartoon.

“What is this?” I barked.  In just the few minutes it took me to get dressed, enough hair had fallen out of her clip to create the perfect bonding surface for a red, sticky piece of candy.  (There is always a price to pay for leaving kids happily unsupervised.  But that’s another column.)

“Where candy go?” she had the gall to ask.  She then tried to find it on her clothes, depositing red, sticky remnants as she went.

“Let’s clean you up!” (In my sweetest sing-song voice.)

On the way out the door I checked the diaper bag:  Diapers, check.  Wipes, check.

“Mommy, hungry,” my daughter whined.

“Yes, mommy did forget a snack and drink.”  (Teeth slightly on edge as I packed supplies.)

Down to the garage.  “Let’s get your coat on!”

“Where backpack?” she asked as I juggled her hat, coat, and mittens.

“Find it!” I said with a chirp, followed by a low grumble.

Finally, on to the car.  I waited with the door open while she walked at the pace of molasses moving down a cold plate.  “Almost there!”  I said.  No chirp, only a fake smile to hide the steam from my ears.

“Do it myself,” she insisted, climbing into our SUV.  Out of her backpack dropped two small balls and a clear marble.  I watched with detached alarm as they rolled under our car and down the gutter.  As I bent over to retrieve them, I caught the faint aroma from her diaper.

“Did you poop?”

“I pushed it out!” she announced with glee.

By lunchtime, we had finally left the house.

“Mommy, binky.”

I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a handful.

“The pink one or the green one?” I chirped.  And meant it.

©2010, Kim Knuth.  All rights reserved.