Triceratops

We had clearly exhausted all topics of conversation sitting around the dinner table in lockdown last August. Six months of quarantine togetherness can do that to a family, no matter how much its members love to banter. Nobody could stand another word about pandemics or politics. There were no sports to speak of. With endless days of sunshine under our belts, we couldn’t even complain about the weather. I don’t remember who lobbed the question into the otherwise dead discussion, but, I guess to break the sound of five people chewing, someone asked, “What’s your favorite dinosaur?”

I knew my answer right away. I didn’t even need to think about it. I’d known the clear winner since I first studied dinosaurs at Greeley School. I even had proof of my favorite dinosaur. The clay figurine I made in fourth grade has been sitting on the “kid craft” shelf in my parents’ kitchen in Winnetka for the past 40 years. But, just before I could open my mouth to reveal my choice, John chimed in.

“Favorite dinosaur? That’s easy. Triceratops.”

My reaction was guttural. It was one of those times you don’t realize you’ve said something until after the words have already escaped. I slapped the tabletop with my open palm, startling everyone’s attention away from their cajun-grilled salmon, and blurted:

“THIS…IS WHY WE ARE MARRIED.“

It was the eruption of laughter that brought me back to the moment and made me realize what had just come out of my mouth. As the guys roared and our daughter scrambled to log my latest gaffe into her running list of silly quotes that she keeps on her iPhone, I’ll admit that at first I didn’t get what was so funny. Apparently John’s and my prehistoric preferences had never come up in the 32 years we’ve known each other, but learning that we’re both Team Triceratops after all that time seemed like an appropriate reason to rejoice, no? Maybe my outburst had been a little boneheaded, I agreed. But at the same time it was another little reminder that as messy as marriage can get, deep down my husband and I are on the same side. There’s nothing funny about that.

Not that it always feels like John and I are on that same side. In fact, it often feels like we’re each other’s worst adversaries, even if when we’re supposed to be working in sync. It was only a few weeks ago that the five of us once again found ourselves around the family table, this time bonding over a game of Pictionary. When it was decided that it would be Kids Against Parents, our oldest son narrowed his gaze towards John and me, furled his brow, and said, “I don’t see this going well.” And, guess what? He was right. It didn’t. Again, my memory fails to recall what word I was trying to depict, but I remember drawing a telephone. You know, the “old school” kind, with a dial, curly cord and receiver. How hard could that be to guess? I must be a really crappy artist, because I’m pretty sure he never even uttered the word “phone,” let alone “receiver” or “cord” or whatever it was I was trying to get him to say. As the last grain of sand dropped to the bottom of the hourglass without a correct guess to be had, John couldn’t have been more furious. “Why on earth would you have drawn that?” The rest of the game went much the same. I couldn’t guess any better, despite John’s incredible skill with a pen and paper. The kids won the game by a landslide. John and I put the game away in silence, unable to even glance at each other as we cleared the sketches – a literal gallery of miscommunication – from the table. When we don’t get each other, we really don’t get each other.

It’s no secret, even to our kids, that John and I are often on opposite ends of the ring. We fight. We fight about the small stuff as well as the big. We fight because I spend too much money on fancy French face cream and countless ruffled tennis skirts despite the fact that I don’t play tennis. But my cheeks feel magnifique, and a perky skirt is always more fun than plain ‘ol shorts on a power walk, in case you were wondering. We fight because John works 7 days a week, even on vacations. And I get that’s how said vacations are paid for, but I’d love to have just one day on the beach without a business call being hashed out on the towel next to me. We fight because I don’t assert myself enough, and because John is just so darn assertive. We fight because I prefer to choose my battles with the kids and extend a curfew here and there while John is inclined to keep them on a tight leash and have them home before midnight, no ifs, ands, or buts, even if they have to sprint the last mile on foot back to the house. We’ve had some battles that have made us question if we’re really “meant to be.” There’s nothing like an international move with three kids and two dogs to test a marriage. Those first two years of living abroad are two years we’re glad we’ll never have to revisit. They included arguments that would make the comment thread on any politician’s Twitter feed look friendly. But, in the aftermath of any quarrel we’ve ever had, our conclusion is usually the same. We recognize that we approach life from vastly different angles. John dives head-first into every aspect of his day with confidence, while I timidly dip my toe into each moment (I’m still working on that). Yet while our different mindsets make us spar over money issues, parenting issues, and Family Game Night issues, we mostly conclude that we’re actually fighting to reach the same goals, for our kids and for ourselves. And for each other.

John and I believe that life is too short to drink cheap wine, even on a Monday night. We believe that being on the water, whether in a boat or, better yet, in a bathing suit, is just about the happiest place to be. We believe that Indian food is best served “no holds barred” on spicy heat, and that if there’s a Heaven, it’s filled with dogs and just-ripe mangos. We believe that our three kids are some of the coolest people on earth, and that we can be proud to have played a hand in raising them. We make a pretty flippin’ good team when it comes to “The Good Stuff.”

Which is why it was at the same time thrilling and comforting to find out that John and I are totally aligned that the Triceratops is the best of all the pre-human heroes. We are indeed “meant to be.” Hallelujah! But, in typical fashion, how we both became early fans of the beast couldn’t be more different. In John’s words, “He’s so firmly my guy!” He explains that the Triceratops was a protector. He took on the Allosaurus (who I gather was a supreme d-bag), and he wasn’t afraid to stand up to those who took from others. Which, to me, makes all the sense in the world. John grew up in a military family. He, himself served in the Navy, only resigning his commission as Lieutenant Commander to prioritize taking care of me and the kids. He’s spent his entire life endeavouring to protect others. It’s not just his work and mission; it’s his DNA. I totally get why he chose the Triceratops; it’s about the facts, man.

Now, the reason behind me choosing that same creature over all the other dinosaurs likely proves me the most shallow being to ever roam Planet Earth, but it makes sense all the same. You know that mane-like, boney bit around the Triceratops’ neck? It’s called a “frill.” And I’ve always liked “frilly” things. Long before I fancied beautifying balm from Bordeaux or flouncy workout wear, I was into bows and lace and all things girly. When I studied dinosaurs at age 9, I liked the Triceratops best because it was pretty with its ruffled collar. A Jurassic RBG, if you will. As firmly as “he” is John’s guy, she is equally as firmly my GIRL. The “cute” dino will get my vote any day. My reasons for choosing the Triceratops are less noble, less thoughtful, for sure. But they’re no less heartfelt. On that we can all agree.

John and I might not always see the same things in the same way. We know with certainty that there will always be another quarrel we’ll have to slog through. Of course that stinks. But at the same time we keep finding those reassuring moments that repeatedly prove that we really do make a great team. I’ve known that since we were first together. When we find ourselves alone, just the two of us, without the distraction of work or family or dogs or even my poor drawing skills, we “float”. That’s our word for the good times, as when we are in a boat or a bathing suit. We make each other laugh. We make each other think. We appreciate the same stuff. We honor the same values. And, for that, I eagerly look forward to the many more moments to come, which will continue to surprise us and remind us of how lucky we are to be together before we, too, someday go extinct.

No joke. No frills. This IS, indeed, why we’re married.