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Picture this: Crazy, pefect love. I don't mean the crazy actions induced by teenagers drinking too many wine coolers. That usually results in scenarios that are far from perfect. (Which reminds me of the time, when I was working at a university, that I was giving a tour to some high school students. I commented on one girl's pretty pink wrist band. "Oh this" she said, glancing at her wrist as if seeing the band for the first time "this is my hospital wrist band. I just gave birth to a daughter two days ago." But... I digress.)
No, when I say "crazy, perfect love" now, I am thinking of the love that is grounded in family and tested by events both mundane and tragic. For example, your husband notices you are almost out of half-and-half and buys more, because we know the world cannot turn without coffee. Or, you buy him a used Martin guitar for Father's Day, even though it is way over your gift budget.
Kids add to the love, although (in my experience) constructive efforts from them don't come until later. Ten years ago we bought blueberry plants. Actually, they looked more like sticks with a few roots attached. At that time my older son was just a toddler who was running around, making it difficult to concentrate on the planting directions that the old farmer was telling us. My younger son was just a baby then.
When we got home, my husband and I each had a piece of the planting instructions. "Soak the roots!" he told me. "Only after you wrap them in newspaper and dig the trench!" I snapped back. I might have said it a little too sharply, but couldn't he see I busy changing our baby's diaper?
At any rate, somehow the planting of the sticks happened. I watered them faithfully, often while holding the baby with one arm. Now those same blueberry plants tower over our heads. I can pick for an hour and still not get all the berries that are ripe.
So I told my family that, if they want blueberry pie for the Fourth of July holiday, they need to help pick berries. This the boys will do, although not without some complaining. I tell myself this is how memories are made. In retrospect, they will appreciate this more than having watched yet another "SpongeBob" rerun. It is sticky work, in the heat of July, with mosquitos and poison ivy a constant threat. It is the setting for crazy, perfect love.
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