Playgrounds in the mid-70s and early 80s were loaded with different contraptions. There were your standard swings, semi-dull and predictable, moving back and forth in the same tired arc. Unless you were creative. Then you had the metal death slide, a towering piece of sheet metal polished to a high gloss, built with the sole purpose of slingshotting you into the dirt after you climbed ten or fifteen steps to the top. The merry-go-round was another favorite, along with the inevitable launch of kids flying off because one brilliant mind decided to see how fast they could make it spin. Someone always fell off, usually laughing. Then you had the monkey bars, appropriately named because the only way across was to swing hand over hand like a monkey. If none of that appealed to you, there was always the tire swing, a tire laid on its side so three kids could pile onto it, stick their legs through the hole, and get pushed by other kids. Another spinning death trap, much like the merry-go-round, except with the tire swing you could hang on forever, especially if you kept your legs in the middle.

But the teeter-totter? That was the one I loved more than the rest.

A plank balanced on a metal bar anchored deep in the ground, two handles on each end, two kids facing each other — the whole point was finding the rhythm. You push down, I go up. I push down, you go up. Simple. Beautiful, even, when you got it right. Unless somebody decided to bail. Then one end hit the ground hard and fast, and the kid on the other end was suddenly airborne, wondering what just happened.

I didn’t know then that I’d still be on one forty years later. Different plank. Same physics.

That’s where Alissa and I come in. In our relationship, when one of us is up, the other is down. And vice versa. Emotionally, we make each other our highest priority — how we feel, how we treat each other, the hugs and snuggles and kisses that hold the whole thing together. Most days, the rhythm works. One of us pushes down, the other goes up, and we find our way back to level. And, for the most part, when we’re balanced, moving in sync, it’s fun.

But the other day was unusual for us. Both down at the same time. Tired. Exhausted. Working hard at our respective jobs. Up early, going to bed late — and for us, late is 10:30. Between a goldendoodle who needs attention, a teenager who always seems to need something right now, and a preteen who is absolutely certain he’s right about everything, it’s a lot. Add a new parental figure into the mix and the weight on both ends of that plank gets heavy fast. Even for a counselor and play therapist.

We were talking over each other. From one sentence to the next, we weren’t hearing one another. Not because we weren’t trying. We just couldn’t get through. Imagine stuffing cotton into both ears and squinting your eyes nearly shut. Then put marshmallows in your mouth and try to communicate with the other person, with your back turned to them. That’s what it was like.

Then she broke down. Not because I didn’t care. I did. I just didn’t have enough left in me to understand what she was trying to say. She thought she was telling me everything. She wasn’t. And I thought I was listening. I wasn’t.

The tears cut through what nothing else could. We worked it out that night, right before bed, at our most exhausted. No energy left for anything except the truth. Two people on opposite ends of a plank, both on the ground, figuring out how to push off again.

That’s what a good marriage looks like sometimes. Not the Instagram version. The real one — cotton in your ears, marshmallows in your mouth, ten-thirty at night, and still trying. The teeter-totter doesn’t always find its rhythm easily. But when it does, even at the end of the hardest day, it’s still the one I love more than the rest.

She’s fun and worth every minute.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​