Can I Get You Anything?

Some years in, two children later—around 2012—our marriage was, at best, neutral. Not broken. Not particularly warm. Just existing, like a field left fallow—not dead, but not producing much either.

I am grateful that I was able to stay home with our children, even though it was not truly financially feasible. By the end of each day, I was tired in the deep way that comes from constant presence: waking with them, feeding them, entertaining them, moving their bodies, feeding them again, negotiating the idea of a nap, all the peeing and pooping, more feeding, more presence. The work repeated itself without punctuation.

And still, I knew—intellectually, spiritually—that I was doing sacred work. I was shaping minds and nervous systems. We spent our days in art and books, in music and movement, in humor and creativity. I modeled patience when I felt anything but. I practiced calm when I was fraying. I offered them safety through my face, my voice, my steadiness. I wanted them to grow up believing the world was reliable, even if my inner world did not always feel that way.

He was tired too. Tired from work, from responsibility, from the long commute he carried like a badge and a burden. I could not see into his day any more than he could see into mine. We lived side by side, each doing necessary work, neither fully able to enter the other’s hours. I sometimes wished we could trade places—just long enough to understand. And still, I would not trade my years with our children for anything.

Like many couples, we eventually reached the quiet crisis: the accounting of labor. Who does what. Who does more. Who is more tired. No one ever wins this conversation.

He worked long hours. I hoped he might join bath time—both a task and a daily opening for connection. Over time, his days seemed to stretch. He left earlier. He came home later. One evening, tired and restrained, I asked him, “Can I get you anything?”

I decided to keep asking. Night after night. Not as submission, exactly—more as an experiment in generosity.

Two weeks passed. His underwear still rested beside the laundry basket, close enough to suggest intention, far enough to deny it. He still did not particularly want to bathe the children. But something small had shifted. When he came home, he began to ask me, “Can I get you anything?”

And I realized then that I did not need anything at all. I had only wanted to be asked.

That question—simple, open—was enough. It was attention. Recognition. A small act of care that said, I see you here. Love, I learned, is often less about grand gestures and more about what we are willing to model before it is returned. Sometimes it must be spoken plainly. Now I can say, “I want attention,” when I do. And I continue, as a practice, to remain in service to love by asking, “Can I get you anything?”

I chose a good man. A complicated man, yes—but a good one.

And I have chosen, again and again, to do what is good. To offer love through loyalty, compassion, and grace. “Can I get you anything?” Perhaps the only response better would be, “As you wish.” But most days, the asking itself is enough.

Note: This is not a sentimental telling of motherhood. That is intentional. Many things can be true at once. In the context of my marriage and my years outside paid work, this account is honest. Motherhood deserves its own reflection—and I will return to it another time.

🌱Good Beet Reflection:

When was the last time you felt truly seen—not fixed, not helped, just noticed?

What is one small question you wish someone would ask you more often?

How might you model the kind of care you are quietly hoping to receive?

Optional practice:

For one week, ask one person in your life—partner, child, friend, or yourself:

“Can I get you anything?”

Notice what shifts.