Susan Senator

Late January is a very still moment in the year, even when there’s a gusty storm outside. The world might be going to hell in a handbasket —  but there are some things that will never change: the way we want to hibernate, and turn inward during the dark winter.

My husband, however, fights this. Armed with lists on index cards, his laptop, and decaf, Ned remains full of purpose even as the wind rages against our windows. He always has a project going — most often it involves writing code or helping others fix bugs in their software, online. Even though he is sitting down, he is never still: he drums his fingers when they’re not typing, and he hums when he pauses to think.

When he’s had enough of his digital world, he looks around for our sons to see what they’re up to.  Natty is content with winter inactivity like me. In the normal weather the rest of the year, he and Ned will take long walks downtown. But in the deep winter, Nat will be on a couch under the pilled blue blanket, or burrito’ed in his own bed most weekend afternoons.

Ned lets Nat be on these January Saturday afternoons because they’ve already done a lot: Special Olympics basketball for two hours in the morning — I’d say Nat earns his nap. Ned, too, has earned a nap because a lot of that time in the gym he was barking orders at Nat — and others on the team. Ned’s never been a Special Olympics coach but he acts like one. He never misses a practice, and he stands on the court during their games. Well, often, too, he is typing at his laptop in the bleachers, but he’ll always have an ear out for what’s going on — especially if Nat is slacking off. “Nat why are you standing way out there? Get over with the team!” he’ll yell.

Once we’re home, Ned will turn to our other son, Ben. Ned won’t say this but he longs for the days when the boys really wanted to spend time with him. This is not a Cats-in-the-Cradle type of regret; he played with them all the time back then. It’s more that it is hard for him to stand inside this new phase in our lives. It seems like the one easy thing he can do with Ben right now is drive with him. Ben is seventeen so even this is a struggle, even though it is clearly in his interest to get his license. But one of the items Ned keeps in his list is getting Ben to practice driving. Needless to say, Ben has improved very fast.

Sometimes I despair over Ned’s regimented routines. I pout like a child wondering where on the index cards am I? But the thing is, I know I can get his attention anytime I want. If I told him I needed him to snuggle me right now, he would. If I told him I want him to come home from work early, he probably will. But I want to be barked at, too, sometimes. I want him to say, “Susie, what are you thinking of doing now?” Sometimes he does that, to be fair, but most of the time, we are orbiting each other, coming together for our coffee and our tv show. And bedtime. I feel, though, like I am the one who keeps track of the life of our marriage, and keeps count of when the last take-out occurred, when was the most recent dinner out, or how’s the sex been lately. I have never been able to guess what he’s thinking, or predict when he’s going to turn his love my way, but as the Allmans say, “Lord you know it makes me high” when he does.

I can get his attention, but I don’t try that much, at least, I don’t overdo it. On these cold days I find I’m craving my own company, baking or something like that. I try to get Nat to do this with me, especially when I’m baking cookies. Ben rarely spends time downstairs with the three of us; he’s in his ginger-candle-scented room cave, either “arting” or texting, snapchatting, whatever-ing friends. I’m comfortable with Ben’s independence, for the most part. It feels like it’s supposed to be that way. But I probably wouldn’t be this okay with that if he didn’t also just come over to me sometimes and show me something amazing on the computer.

Lately I couldn’t stand the cold that comes through our old window sashes — you can feel the breeze just standing near them. So I went around the house with old scarves of mine and stuffed them into all the window gaps. Weird that I did it, rather than Ned. There are some things that are just not on his list. I don’t mind. Now there are splashes of fuschia and jade poking out from curtains. I know that this kind of thing I do charms Ned. He’d never think to use beautiful scarves as a cold buffer.

We’re so different. He’s Nordic snowy silver and I’m Mediterranean terra cotta. I bake bread and splash stories on the screen while he types green on black. I’m impulse, he’s lists. I guess I’m his heat. And he is my shelter, he shapes me, he is clear thought and purpose. He’s the reason I can stay put, inside, and it’s okay.