Are We There Yet?

On a typical school day in the middle of a typical seemingly everlasting, perma-gray, perma-cold South Bend winter, Peter set out to make me an a-typical dinner. The Cape Cod fisherman in him was craving the classically creamy version of clam chowder topped with a mountain of oyster crackers (the same meal that atoned for my culinary mishap a couple months ago.) And he was going to make it for me.

Around 5:00 PM he started steaming, straining, dicing, adding, stirring, and thickening. At 7:00 my stomach rumbled and begged me to check on his progress.

“It’s not ready yet. It not thick enough.”

At 7:30 I got a similar response.  

At 8:00, when I just a look that said "stop asking," I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. To Peter’s annoyance, I deemed it good enough, ladled some into my bowl, and ate my soup solo.

Peter continued to wait though. Around 9:00 PM, when I had already retreated into a book, he said it was ready. I went over to pompously affirm that the soup was no better at 9:00 than it was at 8:00, but instead found myself enviously leering at the content of Peter’s bowl. It was perfect – the exact way that Peter had imagined it, and the version I had eaten earlier was runny and pitiful in comparison.

Peter waited for my apology - a statement of a lesson learned: What? I will be more patient? I will stop giving in to my stomach’s devilish commands? I will trust Peter’s timing? You are always right? … I wasn’t ready to concede. The jury was still out and I needed back-up to completely put Peter in the driver’s seat. So I lied.

“Mine was just as good.”

It came. And it came about a hundred times over. With every "Are we there yet?" I was told to wait ... but waiting for Peter's count always made meals better; adventures, more unique; work, more productive; projects, more complete; (and bling, bigger). There was a point this summer when I officially conceded.

“Sometimes your way is better than mine.”

“What was that?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m writing it down - here, take this with you.”

I took it. It's hanging on my desk at work. 

This week, in the middle of a line-up of fantastic celebrations, there was a moment of realism. A moment directed at that little piece of paper with my words scribbled in Peter's handwriting - a moment when once again my ideas and aspirations outpaced life's timing.   

In between Valentine’s, birthdays, and performance review celebrations, we started having one of those ‘let’s plan’ conversations.  I expressed that after my fairy tale wedding, and exotic honeymoon, I wanted to come home to my dream house – a house that one day would be included in the curriculum of my favorite class in college, 20th Century Architecture. A house that calls to mind the simple form, clean line and organic spirit present in the theories and practices of Mies Van der Rohe,  Alvar Aalto, and Zaha Hadid. A house that embraces modernity but accepts the embellished traditional accents - that seamlessly merges inside and outside. The understated jewel of the neighborhood. 

We debated. We thought of possibilities. We measured the space we had. We calculated the extensive cost associated with said dream house. And Peter made a conclusion. 

We’re not there yet. 

As a millennial, born into an unprecedented era of wealth and opportunity, I sometimes expect things to happen right away - for success to fall into my lap after my first try. And I'm not alone. My whole generation continues to find disappointment when they are told to wait. When the strings are cut and we find ourselves alone having to prove ourselves, our impatience can become a demon. We're unsatisfied and distressed when we haven't conquered the world by 25. 


But ... in my perspective, at 29, a millennial might stumble upon an experience when she realizes that she's not alone - that success is the product of a team effort. And that true success takes hard work, rather than an over-leveraged portfolio.

Besides, what does "not there yet" mean anyway? It means that my team is making progress - great progress. That the bricks and mortar of my dream house may be 10 years away, but the inside - the is right on target. It's filled with life, love and laughter - the kind that puts the McMansions around us to shame.

Lo.