For poorer or for poorer

June 17th, 2006


Our demise into poverty started before we got back from our honeymoon. My husband of seven days, three hours and twenty-nine minutes turned towards me in the crowded airplane seat. Our eyes met and we both started to laugh hysterically. Our checkbook register sat between us on our laps, displaying the grand total of $2.76. Yes, we had little less than three dollars to rent an apartment, buy furniture, get groceries, to start our lives with. The situation really wasn’t funny at all, but to us, young and in love, we found it hilariously amusing.
A few hours later, we stood together on my parent’s front porch, holding hands and giggling as we knocked on my parent’s blue door. My mom answered with a squeal.



“You’re home! Tell us all about it!” She beamed, thrilled that her daughter had come to visit so quickly after her honeymoon. As my mom prepared lemonade and cookies, Cameron and I discussed how we were going to tell them the real reason for the surprise visit. My mom floated into the kitchen with a tray of treats just as my dad walked in the front door. He rushed over to hug us, anxious to hear about our honeymoon and what we were planning to do now that we were back. We told them all about the vacation, stalling as we figured out a way to tell them that we had squandered every penny we had saved and were now sitting on less than three dollars. I finally broke the ice, “Um, Dad. Mom. We have a favor to ask you. We don’t really, um, have any um, money so we were wondering if we could stay here for a few days until we figure out what to do.”



In the childless years that followed, we were able to pull ourselves out of the red, a brief respite from the poverty that seems to cling to young couples. We bought a car, bought a house and even had the money to go on vacation a few times. But now, as a stay-at-home-mom to a four month old, our checking account situation is eerily similar to that day on the plane after our honeymoon. No money in the savings account. We have a few dollars to buy groceries, but never enough to buy designer clothes or eat out at fancy restaurants.



I find myself wondering if this is the curse of parenthood, a tiny pocketbook and an empty closet. But looking around my house, at my worn furniture and old appliances, I’m not sure it’s a curse. My husband and I have struggled through six years of ups and downs, through two moves and three jobs, through two bounced checkbooks and one company downsize. Through it all, Cameron has held my hand tightly and assured me that none of it matters. He’s right. In six years of marriage, we haven’t ever fought about money. Sure, we’ve fought about hundreds of things from the tile on the kitchen floor to where to go out to dinner, but we’ve never fought about money. I think it’s because we know the truth.



We know that expensive apartments and BMW’s and William Sonoma china don’t buy love. We know that trips to Paris and weekends at bed-and-breakfasts in Vermont do little to create romance in a marriage. We know our son can be happy in a tiny suburban apartment without furniture. We know that the most romantic moments come from being together as a family and being hopelessly in love. We know that a kiss can dry tears and a hug can chase away anger. We know that there is nothing wrong with being young and idealistic and in love. We know that dancing is free and that laughter is contagious. We want our son to remember that in our marriage, we laughed. We laughed when life was hilariously funny and when there was no reason to laugh at all