by Gail Jackson

As I was mulling over column ideas, I received a phone call from a frustrated daughter-in-law. I feel very sorry for her but I am also really thankful it is them and not us. We had our turns. Six of them. Their angelic little Kirk Titan has overnight become Terror Titan! Guess how old he is.

I hope I was able to properly sympathize, offer a little helpful advice and much-needed assurance.

The ironic thing is that of our six, her husband was the epitome of a terrible two. He was terrible two personified. I tried to assure her that, as with most everything else, “this two (pun intended) will pass.” At the same time I also stressed the need for consistency and immediate follow-through—-time after time after tiring time.

I retold stories of what life was like with her husband back when, hoping to give hope that Kirk will grow up to turn out like his wonderful, now usually obedient and rarely disruptive, father.

With that said, and with my 64th birthday quickly approaching, let me share a story I wrote 10 years ago this month. It is a true story, except— we actually had all six kids at the time!

I am so very tired. I don’t think there is one drop of anything left in me for anyone. Mary down the street has the flu and her whiny, runny-nosed four-year-old and belligerent three-year-old have spent the entire day badgering our whiny runny-nosed four-year-old and our belligerent three year-old. My head pounds. I burnt the stew I was making for Mary’s family’s dinner and I burnt my hand in my efforts to salvage it.

Mr. Roger’s sweetness drones from the television in the adjoining room; nauseating sweetness combined with seemingly unlimited patience that somehow keeps the kids occupied and blissfully quiet for a few minutes. Suddenly a familiar tune brightens my heart. Dave is walking up the driveway whistling his signature greeting.

Opening the back door he quickly takes in the disarray, crosses the room in two quick strides, kisses me gently on the forehead and, while holding me close, kindly asks me about my day. He pretends not to notice the sudden welling of tears that make my eyes sparkle.

He loves me and tells me so. My birthday is next week, on Saturday, and he asks me what I would like. We don’t have much money but what I want at this time, more than anything in the world, doesn’t cost a dime. Dare I tell him? Dare I? Yes. He loves me and he will understand.

“What I want,” I begin hesitantly and in a slightly choked-up voice, “is to have you take the kids somewhere for a whole day so I can have the entire Saturday to myself.”
He looks sad. Have I hurt him? He doesn’t understand.

He holds me even closer and starts to speak. He stops. He has to clear his voice. Maybe he does understand but if he does, what can be so hard for him? It won’t cost much and he enjoys spending time with the kids. He is very thoughtful and good about taking them on occasional outings.

Yes, he is very thoughtful and therein lay his dilemma.

“I can’t give you that for your birthday. A birthday is a very special occasion, especially for kids. How would they feel if they knew that what you wanted was a day, all by yourself, without them? I understand, but they could not.”

Yes, he is very thoughtful, and very wise.

Fast forward. The kids are grown now and would fully understand the desire of a tired young mother to have a day to herself, would understand that it was not a reflection of her love for them but rather a chance to renew and refuel, that she could continue to give.

I no longer need a Saturday alone. I have many of them. Now I have an overabundance of self to give and no children nearby to give to.

I hear a familiar whistle coming up the drive. He is so kind and so thoughtful and so wise. He opens the door, views the quiet and spotless surroundings, crosses the floor in two strides, tenderly takes me in his arms and kisses my forehead. My eyes are sparkling and he pretends not to notice the sudden welling of tears.

Gail Jackson and her husband Dave live in Southern Utah and are currently serving a mission at the St. George Family History Center.