The other day, Maïa mentioned that her stuffy Clicky and Solanne's stuffy Vanille get married everyday.
The girls play wedding often enough; it comes in waves. They can play it over and over again for weeks and then not think about it again for a few months. When they do play it, it's a virtual Groundhog Day of weddings: the same game gets played over and over again. The little horse, dressed in a handmade suit made of Kleenex, and the little cat dolled up in a white dress I made for her last fall, join in holy matrimony. Then they have a little party. Then, when in real life, the hard work of marriage starts, in their scenario, the wedding starts all over again.
So when Maïa mentioned that Clicky was getting married everyday, Derek lost his patience. Sidebar: Derek has found this game ever more frustrating each time it is played. He also gets frustrated at the fact that most Hollywood shows or movies portray the courtship and sometimes the wedding (or joining of one sort or another), but never the mundane, everyday work that goes into a marriage or long term relationship.
Derek sat Maïa and Solanne down and proceeded to tell them that weddings are just the beginning, not the end. It's where all the fun actually starts, he said. And you need to know, he continued, that weddings are actually a lot of hard work and very stressful to plan. But a marriage–that can be the best part. It's where you get to be with your best friend and build a life together.
But there's work to that, too, he continued. And we both told them about how when you're married, you have to make decisions with another person. You have to decide where to live, how to decorate the house, how many kids you want (if any) and how to raise those kids. You have to decide what to have for dinner, where to buy your groceries, what kind of food you eat, and who will do the cooking. You have to agree, generally, on worldviews, what's important in the grand scheme, and which things to let go of and not sweat. You have to like each other's families–or decide that you can't be near them. You have to agree on how to spend money, who pays for what, one pot of money or two, or three, whether to give to charities and how much, whether buying green or organic is important enough to give up other things. And the list, of course, goes on.
And when you don't agree, kids, I said, you have to figure out a way to work through it.
"But you don't fight," the kids said to us.
They're right. But we do disagree, not often, but we do.
I gave the example of the buffet in our livingroom. Those who have been to our place in the past year have seen it: a beautiful old piece, stripped down to the bare maple, without glass, without a bottom drawer. It took us months, but we finally agreed on an interior colour (dark olive, almost black). But we have not yet agreed on what colour to stain the wood, so it remains bare, nakedly awaiting our decision. Maïa asked what colour I want it. I told her I want it the colour of our floor. Derek's eyes grew wide in surprise: "I thought you wanted it orangey like our diningroom set."
"No, I want it golden because all the wood in our house is golden. You want it ashy."
"No. I just didn't want it orangey."
"There you go," said Maïa, "You figured it out. It wasn't so hard."
She's right. And I have moments of wondering if the fact that Derek and I don't fight and hardly argue is a good example for them. How will they learn how to work things out with a partner? How will they figure out how to navigate through conflict if there isn't much to watch between us...
And in the middle of my musings, I was brought back to reality: Solanne and Maïa yelling at each other, and Derek intervening with his expert conflict-resolution skills.
Ah yes: sisters. They don't need me to teach them how to deal with conflict. They're doing that for each other.
