My children love me. I know that. The man loves me. I know that. My family and some of my friends love me. I understand. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it, lots of love.
Sometimes, occasionally, every now and then, as the woman, it feels like the people that I love the most take me for granted. Sometimes, occasionally, every now and then is all I'm saying.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but I know I'm not the only one who feels this way either. Come on now, I belong to a book club, I hear the girls talk.
When my kids were little I used to wonder if I could teach them gratitude. I hoped, as did their father, that by teaching them manners they would grow to understand that they were actually really thankful for the things they were asking for and receiving with a please and a thank-you.
Naiveté is swell, isn't it?
But then, they would do something so rude and hurtful I would think that I had taught them nothing.
Have I taught you nothing? I would rant as I threw my hands up in defeat.
For example, have you ever given a child a birthday present and had them say they didn't really like it? Right to your face. Or bought your child a new outfit you thought they'd love only to have them never wear it and then confess when it was too small that they didn't like it in the first place?
No? Well then it is just me. Gosh darn it. (That was my mormon blog swearing. Effective, huh?)
I'm not buying it. Kids are like that. All kids. They can be rude. They're not trying to be mean and hurtful, I know that. It's part of the growing process. It's the natural progression. Blah blah blah.
The man and I decided that we would continue to teach them gratitude by example and then when they grow and have their own anklebiters, I mean children, they would get it.
We are eternal optimists. It's one of our marital talents. But, how did I get so far off topic? Oy......
Anyway, like I was saying, as the mom/woman, I do a lot that goes unnoticed. I accept that. The man does go out of his way to thank me for my gourmet cooking though. He works hard and I try to provide decent meals for him. I figure I can shower and put on make up and perhaps a bra and a pretty dress, or I can cook. I can't do it all though, because this isn't 1957, so he gets food. And he says thank-you.
Bras are overrated.
Sometimes, though, I wonder if I will ever be taken care of like I take care of others. I tip my head ever so slightly and turn towards the heavens and I think to myself in a very philosophical manner......will anyone ever put me first for a change?
Then I hear it. It is the most perfect sound. A clank. And then a shudder. And then a swish.
It is my ice maker.
The only thing on this earth that gives me back as much love as I give in my life is my ice maker.
I love my ice maker and my ice maker loves me. It is mutual. Undeniable. Everlasting.
I have a thing for ice. It's an obsession really. I panic, almost, if I think there isn't any ice or enough ice. My day has even been ruined due to ice lackage.
I think it's genetic because my brother has the same issue. My dad likes his ice too and when I visit him I always have to make sure I leave enough for his cup of Pepsi. Which usually leaves my cup of Diet Pepsi wanting.
It is a travesty.
He would never say it out loud but with my super sensory skills I detect with a surety that my dad hates it when we come to visit and in one usage all the ice is gone. If my brother and I are there at the same time it's a race in the morning to get to the ice. My dad's ice maker is sad and pathetic.
Really, it should be shot and put out of it's misery. It's spiteful and hateful and refuses to give it up. I need ice.
Give me ice you pathetic useless excuse for an ice making contraption.
Three cubes does not count as sufficient iceage. (Yes, I realize I am making up words all over the place but this is my blog so I can make stuff up if I want to.) I want the option of how many cubes to take. It depends on the container I am using for my liquid so I need options. Youknowwhatimean?
This is 2011, I shouldn't have to ration the ice. For crying out loud!
My ice maker has gotten to know me. It realizes my needs and it provides. It is my nursing mother.
The other night as I was dozing off into sleep I heard the ice dump into the bucket. And then I heard it fill back up. As if in preparation for me for the next morning.
It did that for me. Only me.
I love you too, I whispered into the night air.
It's as if there is finally something in the house taking care of me for a change. I feel loved beyond words.
I never want for ice-love in my own home.
I truly am a blessed woman.