Many popular things from my childhood have vanished over time. Rotary phones, Blockbuster Video, corporal punishment as the only acceptable approach to parenting—ah, is that a painful memory in the air, or just nostalgia? Hard to tell them apart sometimes.
But of all the things, ice cream trucks have managed to stick around. Yes, these child-abduction centers on wheels have stood the test of time. (And here I thought it would have been Pogs. You know, those small cardboard discs with cool designs that you could win your friend’s entire collection of? Still surprised they didn’t make it.)
Once upon a time, the whole concept of an ice cream truck seemed innocent enough. A nice man repurposes a vehicle, adds a cooler and fills it with sweet treats, and then cruises around neighborhoods to give the children the joy of buying a Choco Taco—or the immense anguish of not being able to retrieve a dollar before the truck drove off, its blaring music slowly fading in the distance, teaching children the valuable lesson of always having cash on hand.
The modern ice cream truck is far inferior to the one I knew as a child—the prices are higher, the music is creepier, and the truck is only a day away from being featured in a true-crime podcast.
Growing up, nobody in my neighborhood had a lot of money, which is why the ice cream man didn’t visit very often. Once, one of the neighbor kids asked him if he accepted food stamps, and we didn’t see him again for six months.
When he did come, my sister and I often had to split something. Which is not easy. Ice cream and Popsicles are consumed by licking, and they can’t be neatly chopped in half. This creates a scenario combining siblings’ two worst nightmares: their mouths being close together and sharing.
(Music gently fades in) “And then a hero comes along . . .”
That is, except for one particular Popsicle with an added feature that allows it to be easily separated into two separate Popsicles when needed. Yes, the legendary two-stick Popsicles saved Jessica and me from many arguments and shared colds. I imagine that decades ago, a dad in some factory somewhere got tired of hearing his kids fight over Popsicles and decided to invent one that could be broken down the middle. Then, after that breakthrough, he spent the rest of his life trying to figure out how to split the rest of their things down the middle too. But alas, Cabbage Patch dolls and iPads don’t cut as cleanly.
This splitable Popsicle is the single best metaphor I can think of to describe the need for balance in marriage. Melissa and I have learned that to stay married, we need balance. Specifically, equity, compromise, and a give-and-take approach to negotiating differences. And of course, sweet, sugary, frozen goodness.
Melissa and I joined together to become one married unit, one functioning organization, and even one bank account. A bank account that, at the time, looked like a rhinoceros foot (it had three digits). We know there’s an important reason God put that whole “two become one” language in the Bible. But I am here to one-up the Lord with this killer Popsicle metaphor. You see, even though a couple becomes one, each person also has to retain a distinct identity with individual goals and purposes. It’s a delicate balance. Otherwise, the couple becomes one of those boring Popsicles with just a single measly stick that sparks a lot of disagreement. (Take that, God—my analogy is way better.)
Maintaining that balance depends on strong communication. And communication requires two individuals equally committed to speaking and listening so each partner’s needs are considered important.1 Research shows couples who don’t have balance are more likely to form resentment and tensions.2 Being that I work from a baseline of resentment and tension toward all people, it goes without saying this is something that Melissa and I have had to work hard to establish.
In our marriage, sometimes I end up with a little more Popsicle on my stick than Melissa does—both because I have the more forward-facing career and because I’m fifty pounds heavier and can handle the additional calories. Other times, Melissa gets the lion’s share of the Popsicle, and I’m left holding the smaller side. And sometimes, it’s hard to tell who is winning the Popsicle tug-of-war—all we know is both of us have sticky hands.
Activity Time!
How Do You Know If Your Marriage Is Out of Balance?
You might think that traveling for a living while my wife stays home with the kids is a sweet deal. But it’s not all champagne bottles and turndown service (it’s literally never that). It’s actually airports, hotels, Lyfts, and—when I’m lucky—a greenroom with a space heater. This is the road life I’ve chosen, so I won’t complain about it. But the having to deal with strangers part? That I will absolutely complain about. And it’s not just strangers. It’s strangers constantly asking the same predictable, boring questions:
Or sometimes, they just say, “Oh, that’s surprising. I wouldn’t have ever guessed that from you.” Which is less of a statement and more of an insult. Regardless, the questions strangers ask me are about as fun to answer as a census questionnaire. That’s why if I don’t have to tell someone that I’m a stand-up comedian, I don’t. There are approximately five hundred Uber drivers across America who think I’m an event planner, which is at least 10 percent true.
Once they find out I’m a stand-up, they usually ask the same stuff. Every so often, though, the questions can lead to heavy conversations. They start asking the harder, knife-to-the-heart questions about my marriage and family:
And the most common family question: “Is it hard on your wife and kids that you travel so much?” (One-star review, no tip.)
These questions feel like someone punched me in the gut and then stayed around long enough to ask if it hurt.
Yes, of course traveling is hard. As I’m writing, I’ve slept in six different beds the last eight nights. If it wasn’t hard, it would indicate that Melissa and I have even deeper issues than we know about. If Melissa and the kids were thrilled every time I left, there would be no reason for me to come home.
Dustin Interrupts Himself
Travel is immensely challenging but in and of itself, it’s not the problem. It just reveals the problem. It’s like a leak in the roof. You don’t know there’s a hole in the roof until it starts to rain.
If you’re struggling with feeling close to your partner, spending six nights a week fifteen hundred miles apart isn’t gonna help. If having an active sex life is the issue, being apart won’t make that any easier. And if one spouse thinks they are doing the bulk of the housework, well, leaving the home is probably the absolute worst thing to do.
For me, traveling exposes some straight-up, good old-fashioned sadness. I miss the kids, and they miss me. I deal with drunk hecklers and with idiots on airplanes, and I nearly have an existential crisis every time the hotel door closes behind me. You ever notice that half of Christmas songs are about musicians trying to get home for Christmas? When the other half are about the birth of Christ, that tells you it’s pretty weighty out here.
And it’s no picnic basket of happiness for Melissa either. She is often stranded at home by herself—well, my dad and the kids are there, too, but I think being by herself is easier than that. She has to sleep in our bed alone more nights than she’d like. She does most of the chores without my help, which means doing endless loads of laundry and nobody to share a glass of wine with. It’s much harder for her, I think, which makes it even more emotionally taxing for me. I feel people’s feelings. It’s like telepathy except I don’t get to be in the X-Men. When people are upset, I’m upset. And I often blame myself and feel guilt.
Bottom line: I’m not happy when people I love aren’t happy, especially Melissa.
People also ask a lot, “Do you bring your family with you on the road?”
Oh, wouldn’t that be nice. Of course, I am much happier on the road when Melissa is with me, but that’s not always possible for us. But we have learned that bringing her when we can is important to our balancing act. It’s always fun but requires sacrifice. It costs more to bring her, I tend to be (ahem) less focused on my job, and perhaps the biggest sacrifice of all is leaving the kids with their grandpa. I mean, who knows how much that actually costs us in future therapy sessions?
It’s always fun—and funny—when Melissa can travel with me. Because she has spent the majority of the last fourteen years immersed in the day-to-day lives of our kids, she sometimes forgets how to leave. Remember that old fable of the town mouse and the country mouse? It’s the story where the simple country mouse comes and visits the cousin town mouse, who shows his country cousin around the city. Except the country mouse is Melissa—minus the cousin part. I’m not that kind of redneck.
The last time Melissa joined me on the road, we went to Nashville for our friends Aaron and Lucy’s wedding, which I was officiating. (Remember, former pastor here.) And let me tell you, I crushed at that wedding. One of the best sets I’ve ever had. Aaron is a comic and Lucy manages a comedy club, so there was a ton of comedy types there and even they were laughing. I’ve still been meaning to apologize to Lucy for being the focus of all the talk at her wedding.
Melissa flew out on Southwest Airlines, so it started humbly, but on the way back we splurged (got a free upgrade) and flew in Delta One, the highest level of first class. Up there, you don’t just get a seat. You get an apartment. Here’s what you need to know about Delta One: You walk onto the plane and turn left. Nobody takes a left except the captain and 1 percenters. Our seats fully reclined so that we essentially could lie down, and we had our own at-home entertainment system. We were given free noise-canceling headphones and unlimited food and drinks.
It all goes to your head so fast you no longer even respect the captain. Don’t tell me what to do, buddy. You’re just my sky Uber. I expect a hot towel and a warm meal, STAT. And then once I finish that meal, I would like to be tucked in and sung a lullaby. Then as we start to land, a hot coffee (with Baileys, ideally), fresh-squeezed orange juice, and some verbal affirmations to start my day.
It made no difference that we couldn’t actually afford to purchase a ticket for the seats we sat in. Melissa and I live pretty modest lives, so experiences like this make us feel pretty important. And because I have no ability to remain humble in situations like this, I started referring to people riding in coach as the common folk. If the plane was going down, the back half of the plane would just break off and the first-class cabin would transform into a mini plane and land safely on a private runway near a five-star resort. We were needed as valuable contributors to society. Coach was just deadweight.
Every once in a while it’s good for couples to feel better than other people. But Melissa and I try to keep our balance. When she travels with me, it’s like she is getting a little more of the Popsicle on her side of the stick.
Because of my career, that balance usually leans more in my direction, so we have to be intentional about empowering Melissa to follow her pursuits whenever I can take the support role. Last summer when she had an opportunity to teach an art class at a nearby, lower-income school, I stayed home to pinch-hit for Melissa.
Now, there’s usually a reason that someone is a pinch hitter and not in the starting lineup. Namely, they aren’t as good as the starter. Dad duty includes all the same tasks as Melissa would do, just slightly altered.
MELISSA’S POV
I love Dad duty even though Dustin writes jokes and makes TikToks instead of doing laundry. Everything doesn’t get done the right way—I mean, my way—but that’s okay. Dustin is also great at delegating as the kids get older, and though things are more prone to breaking, it’s absolutely worth it. We only have so much time. Your teens and tweens can do the dishes!
This experience taught me something: One parent having to deal with the majority of the household tasks is constant pressure. When I’m on the job, the work turns on and off. Life at home does not. There are always needs to be met and fires to extinguish. It can feel like you’re a dry sponge that your roommates keep trying to wring out. And all the sponge wants to do is soak itself in wine.
It can also feel like parenting and household tasks are your entire identity. That’s all you do, and therefore that’s who you are.
I imagine Melissa saying, “Wait—didn’t I go to school? I have skills, right? I didn’t have a successful career to get good at making dentist appointments for everyone. And though I’m not sure if I would make more money than him, it’s impossible for me to make less.”
When Melissa was working, giving her talents to the world, we shifted the balance in her direction. What the act of her going back to work meant was just as important as the act itself.
In our marriage, balance can be as simple as one person gets to leave the house. One person gets to have a grown-up activity. One person gets to interact with other adults in a setting that doesn’t involve Goldfish crackers. For many marriages like ours, one person ends up doing more at home than the other. But we realize Melissa cannot be in that role without time for herself. This is a disservice to her and to a world beyond our children that deserves her passion, gifts, and talents. But it’s also a disservice to me because I like hanging out with my kids. Compared to my comedian friends, they’re actually pretty mature.
Our marital balance includes creating wins that we share together. This became even more important after a fateful conversation I had with an older comedian.
Comedians talk a lot on the road. We’re a tribe that understands one another. Most comedians talk about how, when we found comedy, we also found a community, a group of people who think and talk like us. We finally found other people willing to joke about literally anything at literally any time. We don’t tend to fit in at most brunches and book clubs.
Because of that closeness there’s a real vulnerability as well. We know we all have unique struggles, but they are shared. And I savor when I can find another married comedian who’s trying to make his marriage work.
Once a comedian friend’s marriage was near a breaking point. He had been on the road for decades, and even though his career had never been better, his marriage had never been worse. I listened to him and his wife fight over the phone once, and we processed it for hours afterward. I remember hearing her say something that I’ve always feared Melissa would say to me: “I do everything just to support you and your dream.” This kind of statement is an indication that your Popsicle isn’t splitting equitably, and something needs to change.
Selfishness doesn’t usually show up with fanfare. It creeps in over time. I’ve worked hard at comedy, but I have to be ready to give it up if it’s not sustainable for my family. Melissa and my kids can’t suffer just because of my need to tell mediocre jokes at a divey comedy club in Wichita. (That’s not what’s happening already, right?)
This older comedian told me that even though he makes good money, and they live in a bigger house, and he’s home more often than he’s ever been, their relationship had been better in the earlier years because she had been more involved. Launching a comedy career is a group effort. As a new comedian, he needed help and his wife filled in. But as his career grew, he hired people to do what she used to do, which he thought would make her life easier. Instead, it kept them more separate and they didn’t have balance. Eventually they made a change. They rearranged their marriage so that today, they are doing well. This course adjustment is what actual marriage looks like. In that moment, I learned so much about not just the struggle that marriages can have, but what it looks like to fix it.
Getting to watch and talk to this couple gave Melissa and me an important course correction, which was to involve Melissa as much as possible in my comedy career. Out and about I am a stand-up comedian, but at home Melissa and I run Dustin Nickerson Comedy. I’m the CEO; she’s the CFO and the boss of the CEO.
Soon after COVID-19 hit, most live entertainment shows were canceled, including mine, so Melissa and I knew we had to figure out a plan. My plan was Melissa keeping us alive. Melissa’s plan involved many things: saving money on insurance and applying for unemployment, grants, loans, and anything and everything she could. She got a lot more money out of the government than I did out of my dumb jokes that year.
Melissa’s good at her job. She works tirelessly and is in charge of the money, branding, our Patreon (if you’re reading this in 2091, Patreon is a members-only content platform), and merchandise. We do a weekly podcast together, and she handles our weekly email blast and my website. She offers tons of creative input and handles much of the decision-making. In some ways she runs the business, and I’m just the product we’re selling. She is not the support beam of my dreams. She’s my “damn CFO” (her words, not mine).
We both know that our marriage cannot be one-sided, with just Melissa supporting me and my endeavors, or vice versa. It has to be us as a team together, even when we aren’t physically together. This is why when we are together at one of my shows, I make it a point to introduce her as my wife and CFO. Don’t think for a second she’s just some comedy wife. I’m not convinced this woman won’t fire me if she has to.
Melissa is great at her job but a tough coworker. She’s mean, bossy, insulting, and demanding. We argue over decisions but also have the type of “meetings” that would be frowned upon in most work settings. It’s an interesting dynamic. Neither of us have ever had more demanding jobs than the ones we have right now. The better a comedy career gets, the more pressure there is. The more eyes, the bigger the projects, the bigger the risks, the more things to balance.
MELISSA’S POV
Running a company with my spouse means not padding feedback as much as I probably should. Or at all. I’m trying to improve. I’ve told Dustin that I am really critical of myself, and my perfectionistic and unrealistic expectations can come out sideways on my loved ones. That doesn’t make it okay, but maybe it helps if he knows where these mean words are coming from?
Yet today our balance has never been better, and therefore, our marriage has never been better. We both have clear work and a purpose. We know that when the business wins, we win. When the kids win, we win. These are shared wins that have to be created.
This behind-the-scenes role fits Melissa. She doesn’t need attention, but she needs to be involved. It doesn’t have to be public, but it has to be present.
Melissa’s not shy, by the way. If anything, she’s an oversharer and tends to drop too much. This is the kind of interesting stuff that keeps me endlessly fascinated by her. She’ll push to have her name and face on the cover of a book but doesn’t want a public Instagram account. Why? Your guess is as good as mine.
MELISSA’S POV
I did not push Dustin to write a book about me or to put a picture of me on the cover. But I am flattered and it’s a gift. This book has taken me way out of my comfort zone, in a good way. I absolutely could stay behind the scenes, but I think the world gets a more holistic view of Dustin when I’m in the mix too.
The flipside of the business is the house, and this is where I have to work to make sure I’m carrying some of the weight. We run the business together, but Melissa runs the home and sometimes I’m her hired help.
And I admit, I am not good at being hired help. If Melissa could leave a Yelp review on me as a household helper, it would have negative stars. Which is why when I’m “helping around the house” it tends to be kid focused and not task focused. Translation: “Dustin, entertain the kids so I can get some work done.”
For the record, this is the 100 percent correct decision. If you’ve ever seen me try to fold a shirt, you’d want me as far away from the laundry as possible. Truly, a blind gorilla could fold at the seams better than I could.
Melissa actually has the house so much on lockdown it’s hard to get anything done for her. Last year our youngest daughter, Claire, and I got Melissa some birthday gifts, but then we couldn’t find the gift bags, wrapping paper, or even tape. Whoops.
She’s also highly organized with the files, calendar, appointments, and dates. We’ve always joked that if we got a divorce, Melissa would have to serve me the papers, fill them out for me, and remind me of the court date. Honestly, she’d probably have to drive me, too, because she’s better at directions.
This is where roles are very important. But not the roles that your parents had or the ones your church told you about—the roles that work for you and your marriage. Find the things you’re each good at and then use them to serve the family together. Work from your strengths, desires, and gifts.
One house thing I’m great at? Planning the vacations. I travel for a living. I can crush that. Melissa hates research, but googling random things “to do” is an ADHD man’s dream. Melissa planned the senior prom for her high school, and I planned her date with me. This perfectly encapsulates the two of us. Melissa can plan big things and execute something for a lot of people with a lot of details. Me? I can plan something great for the people I care about. Most prom nights include things like a fancy dinner, a carriage ride through the city, the dance itself, dessert, maybe a surprise private showing of a movie at a theater. Yeah, ours had all that. Not bad for a seventeen-year-old working with limited funds from my job at the movie theater.
But now that we’re adults, our lives have changed, of course. For the better, but not because life in general is better. It’s because we’re better as people. We’ve matured, and we have perspective (and hopefully money). People often look down on young people. I do. But I know it’s not because they’re young. It’s because we’re jealous. We want our brains and bank accounts to be back in our twenty-three-year-old bodies. George Bernard Shaw reportedly said something to the effect of “Youth is wasted on the young.”3 I know that to be true because I was too stupid to not like George Bernard Shaw when I was young and forced to read him in school.
These days it is much more difficult to plan. I’m usually just trying to survive by playing it by ear. Three kids, a career, a marriage, aging parents: I’ve had to accept that I can’t plan everything—or even a few things. I often don’t know what’s going to happen, and even more important, I can’t plan how things are going to affect me.
For example, I might have a manuscript due in early June 2021. And I might be a procrastinator, hypothetically, but I know I’m a good one. I know I’ll hit my deadline, I’ve never missed one, and besides, I put out my best work under the gun.
Then, in late May 2021, I got a concussion in a game of tag with my daughter because I am overly competitive. Yes, that’s right. I hit my head too hard on the underbelly of a playground structure.
This led my daughter and me to return home and Melissa and me to discuss if I should go to the ER. We were chatting in our bedroom and I was eating a leftover salmon rice bowl from a big outing at Dave & Buster’s the night before (sorry to flex like that). As I was trying to retell the story, I said the same sentence ten times in a row. My brain was on a loop. Melissa sensed my panic and we both agreed it was time to go to the ER.
Melissa’s and my powers as a couple shine in the ER. She has all the cards and paperwork ready to go and understands where we need to be. I know how to emotionally work someone and just the right things to say to get us to the front of the line.
Thirty minutes later we’re talking to the doctor. I told him the story of me saying the same sentence ten times in a row. Melissa chimes in, “Actually he didn’t. He thinks he did, but he had actually just gone blank and stopped talking.”
I had no idea my brain had created its own virtual reality and was projecting things that didn’t happen. Two hours, three scans, and six staples later, we were out of there.
Post concussion proved to be a real challenge. Writing a book when your vision is blurred and your eyes hurt when you look at a computer is not ideal. I was in a delicate state for over a month. This was a real challenge because it’s not like Melissa can step in and do my part of the job.
But she sensed the Popsicle was uneven and moved into high gear. When I was having panic attacks, she was there to talk me down. When I was stumbling over sentences, she knew not to point it out because that would upset me more. She knew the gigs I had to cancel and the ones I needed to keep. She stepped in to help in every way she could. She did some of the work, but she did something even bigger—she preserved the rest of us.
We made it through. My head wasn’t permanently broken, and neither was our Popsicle.