Mixed Marriage

After last week's column many of you may have the mistaken impression that I am not aware of cultural diversity in this valley. This is not true. Though we share a common home now, there are people living here from heritages other than Norther European. I have seen both of them. Ha ha ha that was funny. Of course there are more than two, and I apologize publicly to those I may have offended, including Mr. Thorkelson, Mr. Jenses, Dr. Erickson, Mr. and Mrs. Olafson, Mr. Nielsen, Ms Swensen, and the Anderson family.

To heighten the scandal, I admitted that my husband and I have a mixed marriage. It's true, and not just that his great-greats were Danish and Scottish and English and mine were Swedish and Scottish and Irish. It's way more than that. I don't have a beard.

We are a mixed marriage in a lot of ways. In our approach to morning, for instance. I do not approach it at all unless I can be pretty sure of a chance to barrel right through it fast asleep. We are a mixed marriage in that some traditional gender roles are reversed. "Mom," says a tyke, "can I have a grilled cheese sandwich, and--" (an expression of reluctance to hurt me passes over the cherubic face, along with a hint that the request might not be granted withe important rider engaged) "and PLEASE can Daddy make it?"

For years we had a mixed marriage when it came to the Carpenter's Christmas Album. I hated it. With all my heart. Especially Karen. Then my husband pointed out that Karen had not just been the vocalist but also the drummer. This helped. Then I heard the right version she does of Ave Maria, and I was sold (don't, please, remind me that it is actually a combination of Catholic liturgy and Bach that I love about this, unless you want to pay the counselor).

We are a mixed marriage in the way we deal with household chores. My husband does them. I do half of them. This does not mean that I do half the chores, it means that every chore I begin gets halfway done.

We differ in how we deal with the fact that the children like my version of morning better than his. He tries to get them up by telling them that it is time to get up. Silly man. I "get them up" by not getting them up at all. I treat them as I wish someone could treat me everyday as the earth insists on its garish display of turning to face my particular hemisphere toward the sun:I go to their bedroom and quietly get them dressed without disturbing their sleep. Then I carry them to the kitchen, where they slurp up cereal with one eye closed. I bundle their coats on, kiss the tops of their sweet heads, and shuffle them towards the door. With any luck, they won't wake up till halfway to lunchtime.

And finally though we both grew up in this valley, he has a strong Utah accent, an I fer sher don't tal? like tha?.