Friday, December 27, 2013

Confidential in Atlanta

I have, for the past 20 years or so, thought I might make a good Dear Abby or Dear Prudence.  When we still received the newspaper, I'd read through the Dear Abby column, and think that some of the advice I'd give would be the same as, or better than, that given by the columnist.  I don't keep up on Dear Prudence, but Tim likes to read her from time to time, and when I check out the columns, I think she uses common sense a lot when she responds to queries.  I can do that, I think.  But would I want to?

I doubt it.  Listening to friends and family and trying to help is enough for me.  Don't get me wrong, you can still call and I will listen.  In fact, I enjoy listening.  I will still try to give advice, too, if you want it.  But my advice might not be what you want to hear.

This week, if I were going to write a column about anything, I'd write it about acceptance.  Not the type you get when you apply to college, but the kind you do every day with your spouse, whether or not you realize it.  I accept, every day, that I need to make lists for Tim.  It doesn't matter that we've had kids for over 10 years.  He still needs the list of things that need to be done for them and around the house when I leave on Saturdays.  If I don't give him the list, the stuff won't get done.

What does he do in return? Many things, I'm sure. But the one that comes to mind is his acceptance of my sleep habits. He accepts, every day, that I will fall asleep before 10 o'clock, without heading down to give him a goodnight smooch and hug.

Acceptance. It's almost harder to do than to love. If you have both, you can go far.

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