My 5 LOVE Languages

Most of us have heard of the 5 Love Languages.  The concept originated in a book by Dr. Gary Chapman.  For brevity’s sake, I’m not going to linger in great detail, but basically everyone has primary love languages, (things that help them feel most loved) and it’s supposedly a good idea to learn your mates’ love language in order to love them in the way they need.  Dr. Chapman names these as the 5 Love Languages:

  1. Words of Affirmation 
  2. Quality Time
  3. Receiving Gifts
  4. Acts of Service
  5. Physical Touch

These are, I think, pretty self-explanatory, so let’s move on.

I have often said that my primary love language was Acts of Service. I like it very much when my husband helps with household chores, mostly because it happens about as often as pigs fly. Physical Touch is also a big one for me. Words of Affirmation is my husband’s love language.  He likes to be told and validated and get love notes and things like that.  The problem comes when we try to love each other in our language, instead of our mate’s.  When my husband leaves me notes around the house, he is loving me with words of affirmation.  It’s sweet, but it also makes me bang my head against a wall.  It’s SO not what I need, when I’m up to my eyeballs in kids and chores and responsibilities.  He gets frustrated because in his eyes, he’s just done the sweetest thing for me.  So, I decided to make the conversation EVEN SIMPLER by re-writing the book and coming up with my own five love languages.  My 5 love languages are:

  1. Be Considerate.  No, really.  Consider me.  Did you eat the last of the bread?  Did you let me know so that I can go to the store and get more, or did you keep it to yourself and go about your merry way because who cares if I can’t make sandwiches for the kids with food I expected to have when I returned from the gajillion things you don’t think I do in a day?  Did you drive my car and bring it back with an empty gas tank even though you know I have an interview at 8 am the next morning?  Do you let me go on and on about something that concerns me, all the while playing a video game on your phone and not actually listening, so that when I look at you for a response, I’m met with silence and a look of total bewilderment?  Basically, respect me enough to treat me like a person.
  2. Don’t Be a Smartass.  When I send a text about the bread saying (pretty politely, considering my level of pissed-off-edness) “Hey, are we out of bread?”, don’t get snarky.  You’re the a-hole who ate all the bread and couldn’t be bothered to think about even writing it down.  I mean, isn’t writing notes your love language?  That means there’s really no excuse.  You could even draw me a picture of bread, whatever, be creative.  Just don’t be a smartass.
  3. Don’t Be an A-Hole.  I know, this is the second language that says “don’t”, and that’s not affirmative language, is it?  Still, I think it’s crucial and simple to carry out.  Just don’t.  Don’t come at me because you don’t like being confronted about some inconsiderate thing you did.  If you don’t like me reacting to not being thought about, please see love language #1 and consider mine and your family’s needs.
  4. Try Adulting. There’s so much I could say here, but come on.  You know what I’m talking about.  No slouchy clothes.  Take care of your appearance.  Maintain the cars, pay the bills (or at least give a damn about the finances), save some money, take care of things that need to be taken care of.  You know, be a grown up. Try seeing yourself somewhere in 5 years that doesn’t look exactly like where  you are now.  What’s the term for that?  Upwardly Mobile.  We should be moving up, like the Jeffersons, but less snazzy because they don’t make tweed jackets like that anymore.
  5. Feed Me and Tell Me I’m Pretty.  This one is the most obvious, and I just need you to do exactly what it says whenever the opportunity presents itself, and we’ll be good. Date me.  Be romantic.  Let me know that I’m cherished.  I shouldn’t have to cook every single meal, and I shouldn’t have to ask if I’m pretty or if you love me because you haven’t touched me in ages.  That’s not how you keep a woman.

So that’s it.  Those are my new and improved Love Languages.  Easy to understand and execute, and for me these are not in any particular order.  There’s no primary or secondary or last.  I want all 5.  Can I have them?  Well, I’m married.  To a man.  So… no.  But it felt good to write this and get it off my chest, and I’m hopeful that it will help at least one person/relationship to thrive.

QUESTION OF THE DAY:  If you could write your own 5 Love Languages, what would they be?  Does your spouse meet them for you, or is it time to blog about it?

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Losing What Never Was

Chemical Pregnancy.  That’s a term I’ve only learned just this week. What does it mean?  From what information I have read online in the past couple of days, it’s really just another term for miscarriage.  Some people use “chemical pregnancy” when describing the loss of a child in the very early weeks of pregnancy, because technically it is not the miscarriage of a fetus, or baby, yet.  Something about the word “chemical”, at least when I hear it, seems to imply that the pregnancy is somehow false or fake, or all in one’s head, and I don’t believe that is true.

When a woman has a chemical pregnancy, all of the expected pregnancy symptoms are there.  The list is wide and varied from woman to woman, but many of us are familiar with the most common early pregnancy symptoms:  nausea (morning sickness), sore breasts, and a missed period.  A lot of times (most times?) with a chemical pregnancy, a pregnancy test will result in a positive.

For women like myself, there are certain “tell tale” symptoms of pregnancy.  I have been pregnant a few times, but only carried one child (my son who is 5) to term.  However, each time I KNEW I was pregnant from the get-go.  My body does things in pregnancy it wouldn’t DARE do otherwise.  I get yeast infections (sorry) in pregnancy.  I have vivid dreams, many times of the pregnancy or child itself, like I am meeting him or her.  My boobs HURT like my bra is made of sandpaper.  I get tired.  I get emotional.  Very, very emotional.   Truth be told I am an emotional person by nature.  But when I’m pregnant, it gets ramped up to 11.  My feelings go to 11.  High five if you get the ST reference.

Yesterday ended a brief, happy, hopeful couple of weeks that evidently was a chemical pregnancy.  To be clear, miscarriage is real, and chemical pregnancies are not “made up”.  I am 100% sure I was pregnant, at least for a little while.  I spotted at implantation time.  I got a raging infection – seriously, I could not walk for a couple of days – around what would normally be ovulation time (and this is when I became sure we had conceived).  I began having dizzy spells.  My complexion was “glowing” and my step-mom randomly asked me if I was pregnant.  I wasn’t ready to think it possible yet, so I just said no.  My boobs… well, I already went over that.  They don’t hurt me in a normal cycle, and this time they were swollen, with blue-ish veins and lots of pain. My belly was a little swollen. I cried at everything.  Literally.  Happy things, sad things, all the things made me cry.  I had several dreams.  Mid-month, a dream that featured an “old-timey” nurse in a candy-striper outfit and a white hat, holding up two positive pregnancy tests and asking me “are you sure this is what you want?”  Another featuring my son’s soon-to-be-sibling, cuddled up next to me on the couch, my son cuddled with us, taking our first photo together.  My favorite grass-fed beef smelled and tasted funny.  (Meat aversion was something I suffered when pregnant with my son.)  I allowed myself to think.  Then to hope.  I prayed in the shower, “God please if you allow this to happen, I promise I will love this child and be the mother he or she deserves.” Then I began to get excited.  Yes, I was definitely pregnant.

Yesterday, I ceased to be.

I am sad.  Of course, sad does not begin to cover what I feel but I find this whole thing difficult to articulate.  I have cried hot tears and choked on my own heartbreak.  I prayed in the shower again, this time through sobs and snorts, a different prayer.  “God, I hurt.  Please heal my pain.  Your ways are higher than my ways and I know you want what is best for me. So, it is well.  It is well with my soul.  It is well with me.”

{side note: Not even an hour later in church, our worship pastor decided to “switch things up” and play an older hymn.  The name of that hymn?  It Is Well With My Soul.  The man who wrote it, he said, wrote it after and despite losing his three daughters.  He still wanted to praise God and say that God is still good.  Oh, my heart!  God was speaking directly to me and my heart received that message!  You must know, dear reader, that God sees all, knows all, and LOVES us with a love we cannot even begin to fathom.  He is a great father.}

Now, for several reasons I suppose I should have been with not being pregnant.  My son would be 6 when this baby was born.  That’s a large gap.  My husband and I hadn’t talked about, or prepared for, more kids (although I know he would be fine with it).  Financially, I don’t know if we could have afforded a baby right now.  Age-wise, I don’t know if I could handle the up-all-night sleep deprived routine again at 35 like I did at 29 (and survive without murdering someone). Body-wise, I know that pregnancy and birth wreaks havoc, and recovery was a long, slow road for me last time due to an emergency c-section that was NOT a part of my birth plan.  Still, the older I get the less I worry about my looks.  It’s what’s inside that counts, and what’s inside me right now is a heart that longs to be a mother to more children.  To love them, feed them, hug and kiss them, see my husband be the most extraordinary father to them.

I told hubs, who I had largely kept it secret from (until I got a positive test), and though I expected him to laugh at the idea of being parents again, he didn’t.  He comforted me.  My incredible, compassionate life-mate listened, wiped my tears, held and hugged me, and encouraged me to eat ice cream and sleep and be easy with myself.  He said we could try again, we could continue the discussion, we could even look into adoption, if we felt God leading us that way.  What a precious gift he is!  And he’s right about one thing: Our son is a gift, and even we are never blessed with more children, we have this amazing boy that God has entrusted to us, and each day we are with him is a blessing.  He is pure sunshine: bright and kind and sing-songy and darling.  Every day I am thankful for him.

Today, I am not crying, but it still stings a little, which part of me thinks is silly.  How can I be sad over something that never was?  How can I cry over a baby I “made up”?  I don’t know.  But I can.  And I do.  However, I have chosen joy.  I have chosen to be grateful for my life as it is, and for God, who does not make mistakes.  He even winked at me in church and let me know he is aware of my struggle.  I aspire to model his parenting with my own kids, no matter how many I have.