A valuable tension seems to nurture the best relationships in life. It is like a chess match where checkmate is a win for both sides. Sometimes I forget about this and then my wife makes a move, puts me in checkmate and all I can do is say nice one, I needed that.

Not long ago, I convinced my wife that we absolutely needed a camcorder. So I scrapped up enough cash and bought one. I felt big-time, like a certified suburbanite—Spielberg with a minivan. Then I persuaded her that we absolutely needed to accessorize it with a trendy bag and some adapters; we would be gold-key certified then. She was reluctant; then agreed, but only because this jewel was promised to be with the family to secure memories for decades to come, childbirth to wedding speeches. The way I pitched it was that someday in our autumn years, we would settle in our living room, watch old tapes and relive days gone by. Sounds convincing, but it was only a charade, a Clark Griswold notion.

I was bored within six months and absolutely needed something else high-tech. Meantime, the camera got tossed in a closet while memories were being made, but not captured. Every life-nugget I let go—children’s first steps, zany birthday party sound bites—stirred something inside my wife and it was not blonde and lovable like her. The gap between her expectations and my delivery was a canyon, and our son’s kindergarten recital would expose it.

The recital teemed with overanxious relatives; their cameras flashed, clicked and chimed like the Oscars. Just before my arrival, I unearthed our camcorder and prayed the battery was charged in the last six months. My wife turned to me, clutched the camera and made me promise I’d get this one. I promised. Then my son’s moment came. He carried his props to the stage and took his mark to begin. I set up to shoot. Flip went the power switch, but nothing. Dead. He was brilliant, of course, but another great memory was left undocumented.

Afterwards, we walked out to leave and my wife asked, “So, did you get it?”

I looked at her casually and answered, “No, sorry the battery was dead.”

She lingered, but then years of video neglect surfaced. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say, sorry, the battery was dead?”

A thousand virtual stones pummeled me. I was wounded and tempted to say what do you expect, at least I have a job and am not in prison. But the deadbeat felon deflection never wins the day for any man; he comes across whiny. Out came, “What do you want me to say? I tried to record it, but it wouldn’t work.” So I sounded whiny anyway.

She performed her version of the silent treatment the entire ride home; she sprays her words with whipped cream as she talks to the kids—wasn’t your brother so amazing up there—but speaks to me like a 4-1-1 operator—yes, that’s correct, Ashtabula, Ohio, sir. Come on, this is ridiculous, I thought; I’ll get the next one right. And yet, she must have known there’d be an excuse why I failed again. I guess a point comes when results are best revealed by actions and not intensions. Either way, I was busted. The camcorder was not about the family; it was just the childish whim of a grown up—I want that, so I’ll get it.

That night, when the drama softened, she opened up and said she just wanted me to care, to not take tender moments for granted and to be open with my motives when I was selling an idea. My assurance came modestly. At first, I felt like a deadbeat felon, but then came around to gratitude. I said things like you’re right and I’m sorry. We were both tired, so I reached for the lamp so we could fall asleep resolved.

“Oh yeah, by the way,” she whispered through the dark. “You’ll be glad to know. I thought something like this might happen, so I asked another mom at the recital to record it for us. She’s putting it on DVD.”

Checkmate.