My wife and future daughter-in-law had their first fight last night. She is in first grade, and our son is in second. I concede, perhaps, they will not last (as some contend, they have not even begun) but the natural fool and romantic that’s me holds hope. They were in the same pre-school class, and I remember her scaring him like crazy as she chased him all about, endlessly throughout their sister’s soccer games. Now, older and more refined, she holds to her seat and waits for him to come to her.
The fight began as so many do between loving and caring women whose affinities are doted upon the same centerpiece of affection: each believing they know better than the other what is best for the one for whom both care.
We are at our daughter’s, his sister’s, volleyball game where her sister plays too.
“He’s hungry!” she tells my wife in voice of announcement and concern.
“He’ll be fine!” my wife responds, gracious but assertive too in tone that she is the matriarch and foremost woman in our little boy’s life
“He can have my dollar, and you can pay me back!” she tells.
“He doesn’t need a pickle!” my wife contends.
The little girl’s eyes and expression speak different.
“Did we just have our first fight?” my wife asks laughing, half-joking and half taken aback by her challenging of maternal authority and knowing what’s best for her boy.
The little girl either does not hear, or does not acknowledge, a coolness kept at denial of her dollar.
Our son runs off to play higher up in the bleachers, leaving the ladies to their challenge of place and pre-eminence, either ignorant or feigning such that he has become a battle upon two caring hearts contend (I have found it best to leave the question of ignorance or simple avoidance unanswered—we all need our mediums of escape and removal from situations where our presence only adds fuel and heat to flames).
The argument ends as many such do—silence. Neither concede the well-meant intentions of the other. Each hold firm to their place, and while there is nothing to be gained from holding to such battles; the matter is fast dropped and forgotten.
“Where is he?” the little girls asks.
My wife turns, finds him in the crowd and points him out. “He’s up in the bleachers playing with his friends.”
They are back on the same team.
A few minutes later, “Where’s Owen?” she asks again.
My wife finds and points again.
“Still?” she asks in almost disbelief.
My wife nods. They are quiet.
They are on the same team.
As the game plays on, I watch as the little girl pulls a piece of paper from her school bag and begins to color. When finished, she walks across the step aisle that separates them and gives it to my wife. It is an art teacher with colorful rainbow-patterned colors. It is my wife—a gift, peace offering, and sign of care.
“It’s beautiful!” my wife exclaims, thanking her and giving a hug.
“It’s you!” the girl tells plain.
“Can you sign it for me?” my wife asks.
Smiling, the little girl gladly obliges.
Peace returned, my son returns from his high and distant place in the stands and sits near to each again.
As husband, and father: I watch all of this in silence, observing and absorbing all as it lives: an invisible man in a women’s world.
In life, we will all have fights—contentions and disagreements—when wanting best for those for whom we care. After, we all deserve grace, the gift to forgetting, moving on—reconciling and atoning—because, in the end, we’re still on the same team.