I distinctly remember the moment I learned what real love is. I was probably about 11, and I was clearing the table with my parents after dinner. Okay, since I was 11, there was a good chance I was rolling my eyes and bitching about having to clear the table with my parents after dinner, but bear with me. Bringing the plates to the sink, the condiments to the refrigerator, my parents began to argue about who was going to do the dishes. Not one trying to pawn the task off on the other, mind--fighting spiritedly to be allowed to do the dishes. I think the dialog went something like this:
Dad: I'll get started on these dishes then.
Mom: No, no! Let me do it!
Dad: Don't be silly. I want to do it!
Mom: Please. I'm dying to wash the dishes so you don't have to.
Dad: I'm cleaning the kitchen and that's final!
In the end, they cleaned the kitchen together, as they always did--except for wiping down the counters, which was my job and which I performed with such haphazard, put-upon "tween" attitude that it's a real shocker I made it to 12. But the shocker for me at the time was that two people could actually care enough about each other to want to clean so the other wouldn't have to.
My parents have the kind of love story that isn't really supposed to exist in this day and age. They started dating while they were in high school--just 15 and 16 years old--and got married while they were still in college. They waited a scandalously long six years to have their first child--a.k.a. me--and given the trouble I caused, it's no wonder Alex didn't come along for another seven years after that.
In a generation when women were working outside the home in larger numbers than ever before--but still coming home and being expected to do all the cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing--my house was very different. I don't think I really understood that traditional "gender roles" existed until I started seeing them at other people's houses. My dad cooked breakfast for the family every morning, and we're not talking setting cereal boxes on the table. There were fruit sculptures and heart-shaped eggs and messages written in ham. I would also estimate that we sat down together as a family in the dining room for two meals a day about 99 percent of the time.
If there was rancor over division of labor, I never saw it. They work together like a well-oiled machine. When they came to help us out in Prague after Connery was born, Chip and I--when we weren't passing out from lack of sleep--would marvel at their coordination while they were cooking or cleaning. We've often said that if my parents hadn't shown up at that point, Connery probably would have survived, but Chip and I would have starved to death in our own filth.
My parents--those dish-arguing, fruit-sculpting high school sweethearts!--will be celebrating their 40th anniversary this weekend. We'll be going to Great Falls to help them celebrate. I am thankful every day to have the example of their love. It's a high bar, to be sure, but one that is worth the striving.