How a Reprimand Became a Mantra for Gratitude

In early 2007, I was standing in my kitchen with my hands on my hips as I argued on speaker phone with Kate Medina, my beloved book editor at Random House.

We were discussing final changes to my campaign memoir about my husband’s successful 2006 U.S. Senate race. I was grumpy. Kate was suggesting we take out some accounts of the worst opposition tactics used against Sherrod. I was adamant that America should know just how bad it got.

So much drama, and, in retrospect, so embarrassing. What a tame time that was, politically speaking. In 2006, they were stealing our trash. By January 6, 2020, their president’s mob was trashing our government.

“I want everyone to know what they did,” I told Kate, repeatedly.

Kate is a renowned book editor. When agents or authors ask for the name of my editor, my answer often leaves them grabbing for the nearest chair. (We’re a dramatic people.)

Kate has edited many great writers – but also me. I knew the minute I started arguing with Kate that I was on my way to a debate defeat. I just wanted to complain about all that bad stuff one last time.

As I recount this, I realize my behavior resembled a long-ago passage I read in a Haim Ginott book on parenting. After telling—no, asking—a child to stop bouncing a ball, that child may insist on bouncing that ball one last time.

Let him, Ginott counseled.

Let her, Kate decided.  

I complained and one more time, Kate listened. And then she deflated my argument faster than when Reggie the cat dove off the top of our bookcase and pounced on the one balloon my little girl had just declared would float over her bed for the rest of her life. (Goodness, how these parenting memories goad me.)

“You know what?” Kate said. “You’ve told me, and I’ve listened.”

I looked around the empty room and nodded in silent victory.

“Connie, no whining on the yacht.”

Wha-wha-what?

“No whining on the yacht,” she said again. “Sherrod is now a senator. You’re a columnist, and you’re coming out with your second book.”

Ouch. That was harsh, in a fun sort of way.

I laughed, and our marital mantra was born.

To avoid any confusion, perhaps I should mention that we don’t own a yacht, nor do we want one. We don’t have any kind of boat. Not even a dinghy, which I learned only today can hold up to five people. Clever little boat, but I hope we can agree that No Whining on the Dinghy doesn’t pack the same punch.

Our yacht is the privilege of public service.

At some point, I had those five words carved on a slender piece of weathered wood. It sits on a bookcase in our living room. I don’t intend for it to be an upbraiding for anyone except my husband and me. Life is hard, and you don’t need me chastising you for trying to make sense of it.

True, I may occasionally let it slip out when I’m talking to Very Important Men who want me to know how hard it is to be who they perceive themselves to be. It takes them a little longer to laugh, but I long ago learned the power of the pregnant pause. We all have our hobbies.

In this marriage, “no whining on the yacht” is a whispered reminder to oneself. It is also a not-so-quiet reprimand for each other whenever one of us is tempted to lose sight of just how lucky we are. Look what we get to do.

This strategy works unless one of us misses his cue because he is staring at his iPad while his wife is venting. No names.

Anonymous husband basking in the glow of his iPad.

Early in our courtship, when Sherrod was a Congressman, I was sitting next to him at yet another chicken dinner. During one of the many speeches, I sighed and whispered, “Why must they all talk so long?”

Sherrod pulled my hand into his, looked me in the eyes and said, “Because unlike you and me, this is their only chance to be at the microphone.”

Clearly, I’m attracted to people who know how to deliver a whopper of a reprimand.

No whining on the yacht, indeed.