I am of course guilty of the same rebellion. When John and I were first falling in love and a thousand miles apart, my joy sensors were replete with love letters on pale green paper and a long distance phone call on Saturdays.  A few years into marriage I expected more. If he had decided to stop coming home at night, but merely write me instead, I would have hurled the envelope across the room and kicked the wall. Although I doubt our relationship could have progressed if we had stayed in different time zones, I can dig up that feeling of complete gratitude, pouring over his handwritten declarations of devotion. 

 

While I can still behave like an irate Capuchin banging on the walls of my cage, I sense that the escalating expectations have slowed down. I remember years of angst between us when he would go on a business trip and return safely, which was my first hope, followed by frothing at the mouth if he did not also submit expenses to be reimbursed. John's disinterest in accruing wealth was one of the qualities that endeared him to me early in the game, but when that played out in our joint bank account, I fumed. Now I am content with him simply coming home. If he hands in receipts too, it's gravy. 

 

I used to think the goal was for him to do everything I asked because the requests were obviously reasonable. Then I would shower him with appreciation and grapes. Now I am more focused on the appreciation piece, and if he happens to finish my honey do list, I'll swing from the trees and scream.