Yesterday after church, my husband came home, went upstairs to change clothes and never reappeared. I took him a plate of roast, baked potato and green beans along with a glass of iced tea. The next time I went upstairs to put away laundry, he was curled up, hugging a lavender pillow, sound asleep. I figured he needed the sleep. I also figured if I let him sleep undisturbed, he would owe me.

When the baby woke from her nap, I took all four kids to Toys R Us. The boys’ allowance was burning a hole right through their pockets. YoungestBoy had to have Yu-Gi-Oh cards; the twins just wanted to browse and buy something. I parked the car and issued my standard warning: “This is a parking lot. Please stay near the car until I get the baby out. Watch out for cars.” Thankfully, the boys are big enough now that they do not dart about in parking lots and Babygirl is still happy to be toted around. Still, I held YoungestBoy’s hand and he said, “I hope I don’t die today. I’m only in kindergarten!” I assured him he would not die “today”.

After our shopping adventure, we drove home the “back” way, right past the town beach. The sun shone and I said, “Hey, who wants to stop at the beach?” The big boys did not want to stop, but I overruled them when I saw there was a new Big Toy with slides and climbing areas next to the old swings.

I put Babygirl’s jacket on her, but she probably would have been fine without it. This was our most glorious day since last fall. I think it was about fifty-five degrees, but the air was absolutely still, even on the Puget Sound. Sometimes it’s sunny and warm at our house, but down at the beach, the breeze makes it seem much colder. But not yesterday. Yesterday, it was stunning. Perfect. Gorgeous! Six Canadian geese bobbed right off shore and then honked and flew away, just skimming over the sparkling water.

Babygirl permitted herself to be put into a swing. She even smiled a bit when I gently pushed the swing. Last year, she shrieked when I walked near the swingset with her. Something about it freaked her out. This year, the whistle of the passing train didn’t even rattle her. She loved running along the wide asphalt paths with a blissful grin on her face. She did not, however, like being set down on the sand nearer the water’s edge. She freaked out until I could get a grip on her (she was even trying to get away from me) and picked her up.

The boys were rosy-cheeked when we left at about 5 p.m. I am so glad we stopped.

Last night, I painted Babygirl’s room a bright white. I tend towards crankiness during home improvement projects. My husband, who is not a handy kind of guy, normally lays around or sits around and watches me work and banters with me, and then gets perturbed at my attitude, which generally disintegrates at an alarmingly quick pace. I started painting at about 8 p.m. and by 9:30 p.m., I was cursing the names of all men who have not yet created a system for painting which does not involve dripping paint. I was thinking dark thoughts about the prior owners of our home who did not have the decency to paint the rooms a nice clean white before they left. I let out great exasperated sighs and swore harmless curses (like “ARGH” and “STUPID PAINT”) as the night wore on. I was too hot. The room was stuffy. And my husband was watching Alias while I missed it because I was painting. I never realized that Alias has so little dialogue. You really do have to watch that show to follow along. You can’t just listen.

My husband said at one point, “This is why I don’t like working with you!” and I thought more infuriated thoughts like, “Well, are you actually working?” and wondered why in the world I married a man who can’t even paint a wall! Well, he could if I wasn’t so controlling and didn’t insist on the tape only covering the woodwork around the door and not the actual wall. When you think you are the one who does thing better, you pay with your own sweat and stress. “If you want something done right, do it yourself!” That’s what I learned from my dad.

I did keep my big mouth shut and tried not to complain and say outrageous things like, “This is stupid! I hate painting! I would like to kill myself! I can’t believe I am spending my Sunday night PAINTING! This is why I’ve never painted this room before. It’s horrible! I want a divorce immediately and then I will marry a man who can paint walls and fix cars!” I need to be sedated.

This is how I looked by then: Only I have longer hair.

I slept in the paint-fumed room last night, while he slept in another room. Wimp is scared of killing off a few brain cells, I guess. I have plenty to spare. Anyway, I put an extra comforter on the bed and opened the window and had the most peaceful slumber. I love to hear the sounds from outside while I sleep. I love the fresh air. Alas, my better-half does not. He wants complete silence and stuffiness while he sleeps.

First thing this morning–well, more like third or fourth thing this morning–he took the baby for a ride so I could give the walls another coat of paint. He returned before I finished, but he entertained the baby long enough so I could finish the job and then take a shower. He also made breakfast, lunch and dinner today. He’s a good guy. Even if he doesn’t paint. Or build things with his bare hands. Or take photographs. Or balance the checkbook. Oh, please, stop me. His good outweighs his bad. By far.

He’s just the complete opposite of my dad (who built a computer in 1977 from a kit!). My dad could retile a bathroom or fix a television set or get a part in community theater. He was a Renaissance Man–with a bad attitude and underdeveloped social skills. He would holler at inanimate objects when they did not cooperate with his efforts to fix them–like car engines or dishwashers or the clothes dryer. I hated it when he hollered.

So, I didn’t marry my dad, but frighteningly enough, I think I’m turning into him.

Tonight, the room is dry. I created a giant flower stamp and stamped fourteen purple flowers on the wall–the only wall with no window, door or closet. I will fill them in with random paint colors tomorrow. I hope it turns out. At least it will be done. Babygirl will be moved into that room and we will reclaim the master bedroom. My husband will be so thankful. He’s that kind of guy.

Here’s a photograph of Babygirl, which I took when she was about seven months old. (How about that? I can put pictures here!)

I thought I might attempt to explain my pastor’s wife funk. But even without details, the story was too complicated and boring.

So, instead, let’s review the Life of the Pastor’s Wife, shall we?

Your local Pastor’s Wife is in an odd position. Some church women tend to view her as some superwoman who reads her Bible half the day and prays the other half. They would be flabbergasted to think that the pastor’s wife might be a human being who has a sarcastic wit and a dry sense of humor.

Then, there are those who don’t want to “bother” the Pastor’s Wife. After all, she must be very busy.

Some think that the Pastor’s Wife knows the same information as the pastor, simply by virtue of being married to him. This includes theological matters, business matters, and events.

And let’s not leave out those who dislike the Pastor’s Wife because she hasn’t learned their first names and she doesn’t smile and shake their hands every Sunday morning. They say, “The Pastor’s Wife is so stand-offish.”

Finally, how about those who study the Pastor’s Wife’s clothing and hair style and make sure to comment if they’ve noticed that she’s lost weight or stopped coloring her hair. Which leads the Pastor’s Wife to wonder, “Did they think I was fat before? Has everyone been staring at my hair?”

Oh wait. One more thing. Everyone knows exactly how much the pastor earns in our church. The Pastor’s Wife shops at garage sales, accepts hand-me-downs and doesn’t know how much the other husbands earn, although she does occasionally sit in a church family’s home and jealously look out their windows at the waterfront view and she can imagine that they are earning at least twice, more likely quadruple the salary her husband (who has a Master’s degree) earns.

And then, there is the whole issue of the Pastor’s Children. They mustn’t come to church messy and they must not put each other in headlocks during the service. (Yeah, right.) One of my sons once remarked that he hated Sunday School. I said, “Why?” And said, “All they talk about is Jesus . . . and Jesus is no fun!”

Sigh. Well, as your on-line Pastor’s Wife, let me just say a few things I would never dare say out loud in my real life.

I am not privy to things you tell my husband. He doesn’t tell me much about the day-to-day operations of the church. He never repeats confidential conversations to me. He often forgets to inform me about matters of some importance, as a matter of fact! So, don’t call me to ask how long a meeting will last. I might say, “What meeting?”

I hate that we have to struggle financially while so many in our congregation live so well. If this is God’s grand plan to teach me humility and contentment, Okay! I learned it! Can we move on? I’d like to actually go on a vacation with my family for once. But we can’t afford it, like we can’t afford a car newer than the 1993 Mercury Sable we drive.

I wish that there was someone who would befriend me. Who would stand beside me (and my husband) and be loyal and steadfast and true and encouraging. I wish someone would be “grandparents” to my boys. I wish I had someone local to call at 4 p.m. while I’m peeling potatoes. I wish I didn’t have to watch myself, to catch myself, to censor myself, to edit myself. I wish someone would “click” with me. I wish someone would take the time to try to know me.

If only I didn’t find out sooner or later that the women I love the most in the congregation will turn their backs on me because of theological issues or church government issues or some weird situation that I had no part in. I’ve grown suspicious of people in my church community, which breaks my heart and makes me cry in the dark. I feel alone.

Normally, your church is meant to be a supportive place, a community of caring and spiritual encouragement. And it is. Unless you’re the Pastor’s Wife.