Why must everything be so difficult?

Husband has overbooked himself, and he is panicking.

He has committed to being in two different places at the same time, with the children. Naturally, he wants me to rescue him, and ferry the children from event to the other with him. Naturally, I am resisting.

Just cancel one, I tell him, it's not the end of the world.

And this is where the "we" that is us breaks down. If I don't give the answer he wants to hear (which in this case would be "sure, I'll help you by cancelling my plans for the day!") then he will badger me all week long about changing my mind.

He is crafty, so each day he will approach it from a different angle.

The number one angle, always, is the children. "But the kids would really like it if you are there." That well may be the case, but keeping in mind I am with the children 99% of the time, I can let this go. In fact, it's good for them to do the occasional thing without their mother, thus preparing them for the world at large once they fly the coop.

The next angle he usually takes is to attack the worth of what I am choosing to do instead. Couldn't you do that some other time - like any other day, he will ask. While he adamantly guards his precious time, mine is always up for grabs.

A few days later, he plays the profitability argument. The good old money card. In this case, apparently the annual children's party suddenly has numbers attached to it. "It's very important to our company's continued success" that we all attend. I point out the key issue there - the children's party - makes my presence redundant. It is a party for the children, not the adults.

And then finally the kicker, "but everyone else goes as families." Ah. Finally, the heart of the matter: the image. Despite the fact that it is not true, I have been to many of these things and can attest not everyone brings their spouse, to him it means everything that I trail after him at these events to put up a unified front. This says "see what a cute family we are? nothing but roses at our house..."

I have to have my wits about me at all times, one small hesitation on my part and I will be cancelling my plans and coming to his rescue. I need to be strong and consistent in my message, yet not come across as angry, since that will only make everything worse. I need my full body armor in place at all times, because he also likes to attempt this upheaval at different times: when I'm half asleep or after I've had a glass of wine. I need to be prepared - it could strike at anytime.

Once again, it doesn't escape me that I consistently liken our relationship to a battleground. Drives. Me. Crazy.

A truce, of sorts

It's fair to say we have both been trying quite hard lately. A calm has descended, there is stillness in the air, but certainly and sadly no love for each other, only a shared love for our children.
This peace is welcome, and if I don't turn my mind to anything else and put blinders on, it's all fine and dandy. My children are happy, we are not fighting, it's all good. Except when he talks about future things, like "our retirement", and alarm bells go off in my head at the thought of the rest of my earthly days spent with him.
I have researched relationships to the best of my abilities, but still can't find any meaningful advice on what to do when you are unable to feel anything positive about your partner. I fear it is like trying to revive someone who hasn't had air for five minutes; it's perhaps possible, but the person will forever be damaged.
Can we, at this point, breathe life into a relationship that has been too long dormant?

my contrarian ways

My husband hates Facebook.

Whenever we are in a social setting, he brings this up to gauge reaction. At a recent function one unfortunate night, he paraded me around from group to group, bringing up Facebook in each small gathering, making sure I was listening, as Joe Blow proceeded to (for the most part) chastise the popular social networking site.

And as we walked away, he would look at me, eyebrows raised, and say, "See? Everyone thinks it's crazy."

That night it was Facebook. Frequently it is another topic that we don't see eye to eye on. I cannot tell him enough that what Joe Blow thinks about Facebook, or whatever topic he has chosen to exploit, doesn't matter to me. I understand Joe is welcome to his opinion, and I'm welcome to mine. End of story.

What else is there to say?

Yet he proceeds to labor his point. I think, mostly, because he likes the sound of his own voice, but also he likes to agree with the majority. He sees strength in numbers, no matter how well you might structure your opposing argument.

But I am not so democratic. I sometimes - just for fun - take a contrarian stance. Like the time in grade six where I argued smoking should be allowed in schools. I have never smoked in my life, and am seriously opposed to smoking, as were most of my classmates. But I learned a lot that day about debating, and got a glimpse into the world of smokers for an afternoon. It was educational - I can't say I remember much else about grade six.

As I age I am more and likely to be a contrarian not just for fun, but legitimately so. I no longer feel the need to acquiesce to the popular side of an argument, and happily disagree with the majority on all sorts of issues. I call it personal growth. Husband calls it plain wrong.

And here again we are at odds. Shocker.

I haven't broken this news to him yet, but I've enrolled in some courses at my local university. The subject: social media.

It's so much fun to stir the pot.

Time well spent

I'm in trouble again.

Husband is very upset that I don't spend anytime at his side in social settings.

And of course, he is right. We enter a party, and I virtually flee from his side at the door, and get swallowed up by other party goers instantly. He inevitably will seek me out and drag me away - always reluctantly - from the fun a few hours later. Back to reality.

But those hours are precious - I can so easily and quickly lose myself in the laughter and alcohol induced pleasure that any party brings. I always find a good conversation that interests me, or someone who makes me laugh. It is a noticeable difference from his company. No wonder I don't want to leave.

Dinner parties hold the same appeal. I jockey to sit away from him - often obviously by saying "Let's not sit with spouses! Boring!" - and eagerly engage in conversation with my neighbors, until he rouses me from my revelry by announcing its time to leave. Where does the time go, I always wonder. And why is almost ANYONE else in the world more interesting and fun than my husband?

Last night, he was upset that he'd said it was time to go and I had ignored him completely. I think I actually looked at him and saw he was speaking to me, but I'm becoming an expert at not hearing him. His words almost never hold any appeal to me, anyway. They are just white noise.

The lecture I had to listen to from the passenger seat went something like, "When I ask you to leave, don't ignore me. I had told you before we got there I planned on being home by 11:30, what didn't you understand about that?"

He wants an apology that I can't bring myself to say. Apologies are not my strong point.

Instead I sigh and think, don't you ever lose yourself in the moment? Enjoy stimulating conversation, the flicker of candlelight, sumptuous food, that feeling of joy? Happiness?

Don't you, like me, dread saying goodbye to these warm souls because that means facing each other, alone, on the car ride home?

what planet is he from?

My beloved friend of fifteen years is heading back east, going back home to care for her ailing mother. I am invited to her going away party, and of course want to go on my own to this event: husband has only met her in passing only once, afterall, and the thought of him being at this party with her diverse range of friends would be like bringing John McCain to a rave.

I don't want to be responsible for ruining the party.

I thought I would deal with it early, swiftly and impassively that I planned on going alone. As I suspected, it was not a simple chat. I dropped it into our phone conversation one afternoon, and there followed a long period of silence, followed by this diatribe:

"But it's not all women who are going." I acknowledged this. "And surely lots of people will be bringing spouses." Well, it hasn't happened yet, but that may be the case. "Well, you realize it's important for any relationship to do things together." Yes, ideally, especially when couples LIKE and ENJOY each other. "If you asked your brothers and sisters, they would agree with me that excluding your spouse from mixed gender events is detrimental." What on God's green earth have my brothers and sisters got to do with this? And what Puritan hole did you crawl out of?

What was incredibly ridiculous about this conversation, besides the obvious, was that two nights ago he had gone out with two friends, one a woman, the other a man - not a couple, by the way - for drinks and had not invited me, and I hardly batted an eye.

Oh the hypocrisy.

And then the feeling that follows: why, as near my middle years, must I jump through hoops for the right to do what I want? How can he not know that by acting this way, he is feeding a growing resentment that towers above me, blinding me to everything except his flaws?

It's the little things...

Sometimes, it is the little inconsequential things that make my blood boil over, and cause warning signals to flash in my head that read something like "YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY STAY MARRIED TO THIS PERSON!"

Throwing a costume together for Halloween the other day, privately congratulating myself because it was a whole hour before the party began, I'd asked my daughter to retrieve a wig that she had commandeered for her dress up box, and she dutifully did so. When she returned with it, we all immediately started taking turns trying it on, laughing as we all experimented with being blond bombshells.

In the midst of this, husband says, "Tell her thank you for getting that for you."

If I was, say, invariably impolite to my children, I would have heeded this reminder. But I am not. In fact, I more often am exceedingly polite, very quick to thank them for chores or any act of kindness, for that matter, in an effort to propagate good behavior.

Lost in the moment, manners escaped me, and I'm fine with that. I can live with myself. In fact, if I could live it over, I would even choose to live it the exact same way, and my daughter would be none the wiser. Until, of course, husband reminds us all that manners were not adhered to during this transaction. Thanks for that completely useless comment, honey, what would I do without you?

At the time, I simply said, like a robot, "Thanks, sugar". In a private moment later I told him I don't need to be treated like a child, thank you very much. And he replied, well, you should have said thank you. So in short, he would do the exact same thing again, too.

When the kids were little and he happened to call when we were at the park, I remember him giving me warning lectures that went something like, "You have to watch them REALLY carefully! Don't let them out of your sight for ONE second! Don't let her hang upside down from the monkey bars, it's too dangerous!" and so on. Our therapist has explained this behavior as typical of control freaks (okay, maybe the proper term is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, whatever...) who attempt to control what is out of their control by issuing orders, and I'm supposed to simply let him say his piece (as hard as that may be).

Where our child's safety is concerned, even though it drives me nuts since I have yet to (god forbid) lose a child or even experience much more than a scraped knee, at least it is partially excusable - he only wants to protect what he loves most in life. Now that they are older, it manifests differently. For instance, he ALWAYS asks, "Is that movie appropriate?", no matter what Disney or cartoon feature I have brought home from the movie store. It is so tiring, but I tell myself these are little things.

But neglecting to say thank you, perhaps once out of a hundred times? I'm trying to rationalize that one, but having serious trouble. Is he my husband, or my mother? His role in my life is blurred by this image, and no offense to my mother, but I don't want to sleep with her.

Priorities

My friend told me the other day her priorities are herself, her husband, and then her kids, in that order. She is undisputably a fantastic mother with adorable, intelligent children who clearly are not suffering from this arrangement, in case you are concerned. I was impressed with her clarity.

Of course, I paused for thought and compared myself with this pecking order. My priorities are currently: myself, my children, and then my husband; although this is a fairly new scenario. Up until a few years ago, it would have been more like my kids, my husband, and lastly, myself. It has taken me a while to find my footing, and to realize that putting yourself first is not mutually exclusive to being a good mother.

I never was cut out to be the sacrificial lamb I had become.

And so I have shifted these priorities without warning my husband. It has naturally unfolded over the last few years, and in fairness to him, I think he is wondering who the hell I am and where did his docile wife run off to?

I see this and almost even understand his bewilderment, although my patience wears thin quickly when we discuss the issue (He tells me I am wrong to prioritize myself, I tell him to fuck off. You get the gist).

So in short, I take part of the responsibility for our predicament. I have been a moving target, in all fairness. But I feel more like myself than I have in a long time, like I have regained my chutzpah that had temporarily gone missing. In many ways, my relationship notwithstanding, I am happier than I have been in a very long time. I have no intention of returning to the shadow of my former self that I had mistakenly become.

Like me or leave me, I tell him, and to my chagrin he doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

So I have a crappy marriage - who cares?

At times, I feel burdened beyond belief with the abysmal state of my marriage, and other times, like lately, I find it hard to care about it at all. So my husband is a dud; get over it. And I carry on my merry way, perhaps singing the latest King's of Leon tune as I go. I know I am repeating myself with this topic, but such is the state of my mind these days. Apathy.

Life is too short, I tell myself when I think about spending my lifetime with my current partner, but this mantra also comes into play during these moments of nonchalance. Life is also too short to moan over the fact that my husband can be difficult to live with.

Think of all that negative energy that is being wasted on a topic out of my control, and the limitless potential of positive energy in its place. Unless I am going to leave this marriage tomorrow, which I am not, I should ameliorate the situation, or at least make peace with it. Excellent advice, right?

Perhaps this current state of mind is precipitated by the fact that we went out on the weekend and actually had a good time. We had gone out with good friends, one couple going through a crisis of their own. We discussed their crisis on the way to and from dinner. It was a relief to have a diversion from our own troubles.

Or maybe my renewed indifference stems from the fact that as I write this, my sixteen year old nephew is lying in the hospital as they assault his body with chemotherapy, which will hopefully kill his cancer and not him in the process. He is fighting for his life rather than the quarterback position on the high school football team. Marriage schmarriage.

Whatever the cause of my current ambivalence, I wish I could bottle the effect. I feel clear headed and productive, a welcome change from incessant turmoil.

Who knew that avoidance, apathy, and insouciance were the path to a successful marriage (if you equate success with longevity...)? Sounds (scarily) like advice from a 1950's Good Housekeeping article.

Progress is over-rated.

Chivalry IS dead; it died with my father.

My literary hero, Mordecai Richler, was totally in love with his wife of forty years, Florence. I am learning all about their amazing marriage and friendship in his recently released biography.

The famed author, known to be cranky and difficult, was a pussycat when it came to Florence, his second wife, who he met on the eve of his first wedding, by the way. He worshiped her.

My father (also a writer) treated my mother with kid gloves, doting on her constantly. It was sweet. She was a nurse and would leave for work at 6 am. Every morning in the winter he would be up, warming up her car, shoveling the driveway, so she could make an easy getaway. He often fussed over her, trying to ensure her tea was ready the moment she walked in the door. Acts of chivalry everyday.

In fact, my father was similar in many regards to Mordecai: he was also ornery, opinionated, foul tempered, and steadfast in his beliefs. No shrinking violets, these men. But this made their tender sides seem all the more tender, for their contrasts.

I was often the recipient of my father's sweet side: he made me valentine's and wrote me poems, insisted on introducing me as his baby well into young adulthood, bragged about any minor accomplishment of mine to anyone who would listen, his car would often appear on rainy days as I walked home from school. He was a prince.

It is comforting to know, when I read about these amazing love stories and gallant men, I didn't miss out entirely.

Bedtime Rituals

My oldest daughter is notoriously late going to bed; it has always been a challenge. One pet peeve of mine is husband not helping the situation. He likes to use the late hours as bonding time. And guess who gets to deal with over-tired gorilla child the next morning?

The other night, I had said good night to the child in question, and husband laid down with her. Half hour later, he is still there, happily chatting away, and the clock is pushing ten o'clock.

I tell them to wrap it up - she needs her sleep. He finally leaves - fifteen minutes later, to prove a point - by which time I am fuming. His come back was something like, "well, you got ANGRY once when I asked you to leave her room so she could sleep," referring, I think, to once last year when I had actually fallen asleep with her. Good grief. "You are missing the point," I tell him, "it's not a fairness issue, the kid needs to sleep, and you are not helping her by chatting with her for 45 minutes."

He then wanted to discuss this matter - which inevitably means drumming up countless other issues, because if we're talking, why not? I chose to hit the guest room, because that is generally the only way of ducking out of the long, drawn out diatribe surely to follow.

Now, I am supposed to be also writing of the good in our relationship, and I may have something here: Curiously, there is nothing he hates more than me sleeping in the guest room, so for two days he has been pulling out the stops in an effort to appease me. He actually took out the garbage, cleaned up dinner, and didn't begrudge me when I read in front of the fire instead of watch a t.v. program with them. Very strange, unusual behaviour for him. Is this code for "I'm sorry"? Furthermore he readily agreed when I maintained my oldest was to have lights out - and no one in her room - after 9:30 the next night.

And could it also be construed as good that I unofficially accepted this strange apology by sleeping in our bedroom last night? An ever so faint glimmer of hope in this stale, dark tunnel?

Boredom

I'm bored with this topic already. Can I have some cheese with that whine?

And maybe, in fact, that is what has happened with my fledgling partnership. There has always been something else to focus on: the engagement, the wedding, the career, the baby, the siblings the baby must have, our home. Then as soon as I was finished popping out children we built a new house, a project that occupied my mind for a couple of years.

Recently my youngest started full time school, and I finally have a chunk of time each day to call my own. Time to do all of those senseless errands that are required of someone in each family: return library books and movies, buy socks/Halloween costumes/silly bands, attend to the never ending grocery list. It doesn't sound like much, but such mindless tasks can easily take over a day. Or your life, for that matter.

So up until now, there has been something to look forward to or reach for. And I would continually tell myself, "Things will get better when..." fill in the blank: we have a baby, have more money, have more time, have our dream house. But with no project in site our issues seem magnified. They are huge, in fact.

Could it be I am just bored and need more stimulation? Am I, in lieu of something else to occupy my mind, creating a make-work project where a marriage once was? Is divorce simply the next inevitable adventure in my life?

Such is the state of my mind: endless upon endless questions, second guessing myself at every turn, simultaneously driving me mad and boring me to tears.

I hate...Saturdays?

About five years ago, it dawned on me that unlike most people, Saturday, not Monday, was my most dreaded day of the week. The day husband was home from work. And I can tell you it was five years ago, because I so desperately wanted to divorce him, but had three children under the age of six, and could barely muster the energy to get through the day let alone hire a divorce lawyer.

Generally on Saturdays, he sleeps in, and I rise early, so that works well. I make pancakes and the kids get to watch their favorite t.v. shows and we stay in our pajamas a little longer than normal. Undoubtedly nice chilling time, I always look forward to it.

Then he gets up, and the peace evaporates.

I read a story with my daughter once, wherein a girl is rewarded for kindness with a spell that makes jewels spill from her mouth whenever she speaks, and her stingy sister is likewise penalized with a spell that has snakes spilling from hers. I sometimes think my husband is under such a spell where only criticisms or negative comments spill from his mouth.

On one such random Saturday, I quietly wrote down every negative comment he threw my way during the day. At the end of the day they totaled thirty-seven. I think I still have the piece of paper to prove it.

By the thirty-seventh comment I lost it, and demanded to know why everything that came from his mouth was negative. He told me I was too sensitive, and that normal people conversed openly about these things, that was life.

He doesn't intend these to be criticisms to be taken personally, he said then and still maintains. But when I am the only other adult in the house, I feel obligated to respond, and explain, rather than just let them hang in the air. So my whole day is effectively spent justifying what I either did or didn't do.

They are notoriously insignificant things, like burnt out light bulbs, laundry stains (a nemesis with children under the age of three), toys that needed batteries, corners that needed dusting, shoes that didn't fit, buying the wrong brand of mayonnaise. Hardly divorce material.

It seemed of little consequence that the big picture was a rosy one. Our children were happy and healthy and well cared for, our house presentable, our neighborhood safe. He was obsessed with the most tedious of things, nothing seemed to escape his notice.

"Strive for perfection!" he would say.

"Take a hike!" I would answer.

(We went through this bizarre stage where whenever I made a legitimate mistake - like buying orange juice with pulp - he would try to demand that I recognize my mistake by calling myself a loser. "Admit it! You're a loser! That's what I would call myself if I made that mistake!" Yeah, that was weird. And short lived. He hasn't tried that one in a while.)

Today is Saturday. The complaints are a bit grander in scale, more befitting our current circumstances. I haven't decorated our office, haven't arranged for family photos, haven't put a detailed plan in place with our cleaner. All within the space of an hour.

I calmly deal with first two. (But you are worried about money and we don't use this office, so why would we decorate it? And again, the arbitrary money approach arises, "We have money for THAT!" he replies.) I diffuse the second, and by the third, simply stare blankly at him.

I see his lips moving, but manage to tune out his voice. Inside my head I wonder how it is I ever got to this place, and start counting down the hours until Monday.

If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all.

I firmly believe in this theory, much to my children's chagrin - I quote it often. It is far better to dwell on the good, and forget the bad, especially when dealing with one's character. We are all human, after all.

Over time, when people are discussing their spouses, I have become rather mute. This is telling, since I otherwise have a lot to say.

I haven't written about any good in our relationship simply because there hasn't been any, I have no material to use. Although there is a slew of bad - I may have to dredge up some past bad highlights to fill some pages. Like the time I limped in the house after running a marathon and he was angry with me for closing the door too loudly. Congratulations to you, too, asshole.

There are some key moments of growth that are being missed in this partnership. He can't celebrate or be happy for me at any cost, so there are no throwback moments of tenderness to share. He would probably say the same of me, frankly. One bad turn deserves another, and it is hard for me to get excited about him winning a soccer game when I think of his reaction to my marathon.

And a vicious circle is formed. He complains that I do not support him or appreciate him. I point out he fails in those same areas in our mirror image. He is disappointed I don't tell him things. I point out it is to save either me or my friends or acquaintances from the ridicule and criticism that is sure to follow. And so on, and so on. In our case, the term marriage is simply an idiom for a cat that chases its tail, ceaselessly.

Yet I will continue to rack my brain for something positive to write. Could it be construed as positive that he "let" me fly back home recently when two of my family members were hit with bad news? (I hate to use the word "let", like I need permission. But I kind of did.)

That he "let" me go was extremely positive in his eyes, and he made no bones about it. However in my experience he grimaced when I told him I needed to go home to see my family - not because of the bad news, but because it meant inconveniencing him for a long weekend. It would mean having to coach in a soccer tournament and look after our kids. It was the first time I have returned home on short notice in fifteen years, and it would have been so nice to hear the words, "You go and be with your family, I'll take care of everything on this end; don't worry about a thing."

(Instead, he then proceeded to growl about the cost (do you REALLY need to go?), so I booked it on points, although it took almost two days to accomplish that. He was unhappy that I would be missing a holiday dinner with our children, and very unhappy he would have to find someone else to go to the hockey game with in my absence, and finally, extremely unhappy to ask his parents to pick the kids up from school.)

But then sympathy has never been his thing. This is the man who, when my father died and I called to tell him the devastating news, said something along the lines of "I'm so sorry, but I've really got to run." In his defense, I was incoherent in my grief. Or so I told myself. I came really close to ending our relationship that day, and smack myself now.

"Really, there is NOTHING good?" my friends ask, incredulous. Pretty much, I reply. There used to be, a long time ago, but those memories are evaporating quicker each day, and being replaced by a long list of reasons to NOT be married.

Oh wait.

The other morning, at 6 am, he tenderly shook my shoulder and asked in a voice I haven't heard in a long time, if I could please drive him in to work, his car was in the shop and he had an early meeting. I was dazed and confused by this voice that I hadn't heard speak to me in that manner in so long. It was as if I was still dreaming. Had a truce been signed in my slumber? I stumbled through the darkness and into my clothes, but haven't heard that tone again since.

Never marry for money. You can borrow it cheaper. - Scottish proverb

One problem with being a stay at home mother is relinquishing control of the purse strings. Strangely, I didn't foresee this when I agreed to give up my work to raise our children. I thought we would both continue to participate in financial decisions, discussing and compromising along the way.
Silly me.
In partnerships that work well, both parties presumably respect each others wishes and desires as to how the pie will be divided. Most of the time, anyway.
But when there is a complete communication breakdown and growing resentments, any financial decision that needs to be made creates a breeding ground for mould. A tug of war ensues. He says x, I say y. Arguments are presented. Spoiler alert: the breadwinner usually wins the day.
It's a simple formula, really. If he wants to do it, we do it. If he doesn't, we don't, and he will use the "we can't afford it" argument, followed by the "if you were earning the money, you too would feel differently!" phrase, for added emphasis.
What we can and can't afford is quite arbitrary. We can afford for our family to go to Vegas for our child's soccer tournament; we can't afford for me to go for my birthday with friends. We can't afford any new clothes for me; we can afford the best of the best for our children. We can't afford for me to fly home when there is life threatening illnesses, but yet we are planning a 5 week vacation in Europe. We can't afford to ski, but he is adamantly pursuing dropping thousands on a country club membership (still on the table, I am holding firm on that one).
A pattern is arising: he is willing to spring for just about anything in the interests of our children, and nothing for my own personal gain.
For me to make any headway, I need to put forth a proposal that needs to be ironclad and extremely well presented, preferably without taking a breath, lest he begin his objections before I have finished presenting my entire case. I feel like a child asking for my weekly allowance, and he loves to watch me squirm.
Although he heralded the "everything I have is yours" mantra in our early days, this has given way to "I work hard for my money and you are throwing it down the drain!" slowly over time. He simply declares, "You don't need that", and I am silenced.
It's mostly just stuff, and who needs more stuff? I let most of it pass, it was easier to go without.
Now, nearing middle age, I realize it is a crazy regime I live under. We seemingly have money - yet I can buy nothing without going through the paces. "Did you NEED that?" is always the first thing out of his mouth. And then whatever carefully rehearsed justification I have in my back pocket flies out of my mouth. It is demoralizing.
With no end in sight. And I'm so tired of grovelling; it never has suited me.
So I'm taking myself back to work, joining the 9 to 5 forces, and hoping the price isn't too much for my children to pay.

the end of the world as we know it

I didn't get the memo that having children means the end of your life. And if I had, I wouldn't have signed up as readily. I knew it would mean adjustments, maybe even radical ones initially. But surely the goal is to rejoin a figment of your previous self eventually.
Mommy Dearest or bust hadn't occurred to me.
And of course how your spouse will react to parenting is anyone's guess. You might have an idea, but you never really know if all of those early promises and wishes one has while the child is in the uterus will carry forward, or fall by the wayside faster than you can say "golf" or "boys weekend".
What I initially strutted about like a peacock pronouncing at baby groups, when the other groggy eyed mothers would complain about their husbands barely lifting a finger to care for their newborns, was "Turns out my husband is a passionate father! He is completely engaged whenever at home with caring for the baby. Not only that, he calls ten times a day to make sure everything is running smoothly in his absence!" I noted the raised eyebrows, but sloughed it off as jealousy.
Who knew the flip side of caring too little is caring too much?
When the children were babies, and I was always in a sleep deprived state, our lives worked well. He decided when and where and what we were doing, for the most part, since getting through the day, wherever that may be, was my motive. And he was as in tune, if not more so, with their schedules than I, so everything revolved around naps and bottles and diapers and baby food. We seldom went out just the two of us, which was fine: I was usually too tired anyway.
But I have finally woken up, and pried my youngest child's arms from around my neck, only to find myself even more shackled than when they were babies.
Our lives revolve around our children more than ever: we have morphed into a solar system where they are the sun, and we, the helpless planets, stuck in orbit. We revolve around soccer games, gymnastic competitions, and sleep overs. We never go near anything that they reject: skiing, hiking, hanging with people who may not have children their congruent ages or at all, babysitters, Indian food, strolling through farmer's markets.
Of course, it is the path of least resistance to follow their whims and desires, to a certain degree. But husband and I disagree on the extent of this, which gets us into no end of trouble.
He used to want to reject dinner invitations if one of our children didn't have a playmate of similar age. When friends invited us to their ski cabins he would promise our children he would ski with them all weekend, thereby ruining the "moms ski one day, dads ski the other" arrangements made by the adults. The children don't like babysitters generally, so we rarely go out. I could go on and on, but it both alarms and saddens me so I'll stop.
At the end of the day, he is happy to be a puppet to our children, has gladly forfeited any sense of who he was before children in lieu of fatherhood.
But me, I want it all: I want to love both my children, and myself minus the mother in me.

The Rushing River

Last week, the river that I run by was running fast and furious, thundering in my eardrums and drowning the tree trunks that line the riverbank. A couple of feet higher and it would have washed out the trail. Its power and speed were amazing.
Today, the same river was like a little lamb, barely a trickle of its former self. I could easily have waded to the other side without incident, its power beat into submission or just missing in action, I'm not sure which.
At times my marriage difficulties are like the river when it runs fast and furious, impossible to navigate and harder to ignore. And other times it is simply a quiet body of water that is present but one you can tune out; it's easy to run beside it and not get your feet wet.
And when life brings bad news, as it sometimes does, it's almost a relief to throw my charade of a marriage onto the back burner and concentrate on helping others; although obviously I am not hoping for bad things to happen to my friends and family.
Three very recent diagnoses of cancer within the compact circle of people I love means my marriage problems are far from the front of my smallish brain.
For now, there are bigger fish to fry; and the river will always run.

dishes

Every marriage has a problem with doing dishes, am I right? Or perhaps NOT doing dishes is more apt.
It's trite and it's petty, but it's everyday life and it all adds up.
I am the dishwasher in my family. My husband works and I stay home, so fair is fair, he says. I make the dinner, serve it, clean it up; there is no expectation that he lends a hand in any of this affair. We have clearly defined roles: he is the breadwinner, and brings in the dough. I do everything else. Our names should be June and Ward Cleaver. It still shocks me that this is my life, but there you go.
I do have a house cleaner once a week, so scrubbing toilets and floors is not part of my game. We hired her because I was too busy caring and running three children around to do a very good job at cleaning. It is not my forte, I happily admit. So when he complained about the dirt on the floor or the mess in the bath tub, I told him to either clean it himself or hire a cleaner. The next day we had a cleaner.
That worked out so well that when he next complained to me about our garden, guess what? He hired a gardener. We now have a small army of people who help us run our household, which he is not at all happy about, but he realizes that, since we can afford this help, things actually operate at a much smoother level. And the garden is weeded and the house is clean, which is very important to him.
But it ticks him off to no end that I don't scrub the floors or spend my time planting flowers and growing vegetables, so it is of utmost importance to him that I do everything else. (He did admit this in marriage counselling, saying he would be happier at work if he knew I was home scrubbing the floors. Can you feel the love?) He refuses to take out the garbage, for instance, insisting that is my territory. I have stopped asking.
It's generally fine and we have both accepted our roles, but he so adamantly enforces the letter of the law it is depressing.
So on the odd occasions where I go out at night, and they are still eating their dinner, I invariably come home to a kitchen frozen in time: every dish, pot, plate and utensil is exactly where it was when I left.
When the children were little and more hands on, I ignored this; it was hard for him to put them to bed. But now our children are at the age where you say, "go to bed," and they go to bed. There is no heavy lifting or difficulty involved in this task. It is probably harder for him, a known neat freak, to purposely leave the kitchen a mess while he navigates around, then it would be to fire a few dishes into the dishwasher and scrub a pot; but this is what he does.
Out of spite, he leaves the mess for me to clean up. Fair is fair, he shrugs.
And since there is nothing I love more than cleaning up a kitchen at midnight after I have come home from a concert, I mindlessly scrape the cheese from the pot and wonder what it would be like to come home to someone you actually liked?

Love - Love Will Keep Us Together. Or not.

Ironically, when I was a child I used to belt out this Captain and Tennille song for the benefit of my older siblings, or for my parent's parties. I loved an audience, and thought myself very talented since I had also carefully choreographed dance moves for my performances. I was classy that way.
It may well be that enduring love keeps Captain and Tennille (and others) together, but it is children and economics that are keeping my marriage together. Not as catchy for singsong purposes. How about kids and cash? That may have a better ring to it, but is decidedly unromantic. Then again, my eyes are wide open about marriage being unromantic; I will never make that mistake again.
So the question is: when love has evaporated from a relationship, and you have children together, do you stay for the sake of the children, thereby giving up your chance at the "flower of life", as Edith Wharton refers to true love; or do you go through the dark days of divorce in the hope of achieving happiness? Hardly an original question, but one that I wonder about every day.
I should assert here, in case you are dubious, that there are no "flower of life" possibilities in my midst, and none that I am aware of in my husband's. If there were, for either of us, the answer may be more obvious. But being blissfully solo, at this point, also holds its own appeal.
The answer, I think, is simply how bearable your relationship is with your spouse. If you have managed to hold on to a level of friendship and respect for each other, then it probably makes sense to keep working hard to stay together.
But if every exchange is fraught with tension and acrimony, and you disagree on both things small and large, increasingly as time goes on, there is a point where you should agree to end the marriage contract. It seems so simple in black and white.
But simple it is not.
My husband has told me he will never agree to divorce, that he made a vow to me he intends to keep, and he thinks divorce would be too hard on our children. Yet he is nasty, difficult and cranky. And I am no wilting flower: I give back what I receive. So we end up living in an almost constant state of war, albeit a quietly staged one. I dream of peace: when he goes away for business trips it is as close to heaven as I think I'll ever get here on earth.
He loves to argue("conversation", he calls it, but whenever I disagree with him he asks, "why are you arguing with me?") and thinks we should "converse" more, the caveat being that I agree with everything he says. It boggles my mind. The key to a successful relationship is communication, but such a huge divide has grown between us that it is almost impossible to bridge. Most days, I simply am not up for it. Silence is so much easier.
He is, and my therapist agreed with me, a tricky one, and getting trickier as time ticks slowly by. My best case scenario if we stay married is to coexist, continue to share parenting responsibilities and speak little.
But as I write this, that sounds more like a blueprint of a divorced relationship than a marriage.

Fact or Fiction?

Who hasn't heard the "half of all marriages end in divorce" statistic? If that is the case, where the hell are these divorcee's hiding? There are exactly 5 divorced parents at my childrens' school, which educates roughly 500 students. It doesn't take a mathematician to realize that this is far fewer than that famous statistic would suggest.
Not that I am hoping for others to fail where I seemingly have (not officially, at this point, but perhaps in that direction). But I have finely tuned ears for those stories that are pertinent to my situation in life, at that point in time. For instance, when I was applying for universities, I would be able to filter out any comments about scholarships or tuition fees as I walked down the loud, busy halls of my high school, as though it was the juiciest gossip imaginable. Ditto any Bridezilla stories several years later, once I was engaged. And I hung on to every word of a labour and delivery story when I was pregnant, and every toddler story thereafter.
Now that these stories are old news to me - been there, done that - I barely have the patience for one minute of them before my eyes start rolling back in my head and I try to quell my gag reflux.
However I'm primed and ready, ears perked, to hear real life stories of failed marriages. What was it that finally did them in? What was their marriage really like, once the doors were closed? Did they disagree about everything, or just major things? Did they, at the end of the day, still love each other but just couldn't live together anymore, or hate each other with a vengeance that grew and grew? Please, tell me every little sordid detail and don't hold back.
But no one's talking. When it comes to the good, the bad, and the ugly, it would seem people are not as keen to share the bad and the ugly part, beyond, of course, the all-husbands-are-idiots comments that we trade with winks and knowing smiles. And of the five divorced people I occasionally pass by, I know none of them well enough to delve into their stories. "How's Johnnie doing? And how's that divorce treating you, by the way?" just wouldn't roll off the tongue with ease.
In fact, I wonder if I am missing some social cues, because anyone who spends ten minutes with me, on average, would pick up on my marital problems. And if wine is anywhere on the premises, they will get an earful. Partially because I like to vent, but mostly because I feel like not telling people the status of my heart is akin to lying.
It makes me wonder: is my marriage really as terrible as I make it out to be? Or are my standards impossibly high? And if everyone else is standing around smiling, are they all in love with their spouses and happy as clams, or simply lying?
Not that it matters; I just want their stories. I thirst for them, as only a person crawling through the desert can thirst. So in desperation, I turn to literature.
A picture tells a thousand words; and so do the books piled beside my bed. In the past year I have read Anna Karenina, The Age of Innocence, two volumes of essays by women writers on love and relationships, and, curiously, tributes to their spouses by Calvin Trillin and Joan Didion. I am obsessed with love, especially those who find true love within the bond of marriage; but mostly find comfort in those characters, both real and invented, who don't.
Sometimes I read passages that take my breath away, they seem so close to how I feel, and I am not so alone anymore. Newland Archer, in the Age of Innocence, thinks, "The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future." HERE is something I can relate to. And near the end of the novel, "Something he knew he had missed: the flower of life. But he thought of it now as something so unattainable and improbable that to have repined would have been like despairing because one had not drawn the first prize in a lottery. There were a hundred million tickets in HIS lottery, and there was only one prize; the chances had been too decidedly against him."
Sometimes I think I should be more accepting of my fate, like Newland. Other days I believe it is still not too late to change it.

my husband, the fashionista

It has to be said, I have historically been attracted to men who care little about their choice of clothing. When I flip through a magazine, I pause longer to admire the advertisements containing unshaven, disheveled men wearing jeans and t-shirts than I do over those containing clean cut, dapper men in well tailored suits, or those wearing carefully styled and matching outfits.
And so I had to cringe when my husband opined about the importance of one's cuff links matching one's tie.
Here we go: yet another largely irrelevant disagreement. Is there anything in this world we actually agree on? But pacifism doesn't suit me. Taking a deep breath, I plunge in.
Really, it's not necessary to match your cuff links with your tie , I say.
Of course it is, he counters, just like you match your shoes to your bag!
I don't match my shoes to my bag, in color, as he was meaning. I try to roughly match their intentions, like if my shoes are my industrial, clunky everyday shoes, my bag will also be correspondingly slouchy and large. If my shoes are dainty, then I will switch to a bag with a smaller profile. Not: blue shoes, blue bag! Never mind that I don't feel the need to match their colors; I have very few options from which to choose. But that is another story.
I say simply, I don't match my shoes to my bag. (He snorts)
Undeterred, I press on: your cuff links are so small and insignificant, barely noticeable underneath your suit jacket; do you really think it's necessary to match them to your tie? (This thought boggles my mind; surely there are better things to think about?)
I want to cajole, why don't you live a little, be quirky, be crazy, and wear whatever tie is crying your name from its rack and put on the first cuff links you reach for? Because thinking about which cuff links best match your tie for one SECOND is really one second too long. But I don't say this. Instead, I silently muse about the metaphorical significance of this conversation: his annal attention to detail versus my throw caution to the wind attitude; and wonder once again how we ended up together.
He dismisses my comment, saying you do SO care about matching your shoes to your bag. I smile as I envision how this conversation could unfold: "do NOT!"; "do TOO!", over and over again. We are so sophisticated.
The following thoughts flood my brain and I am quickly overwhelmed and exhausted: Why do I need to defend my fashion choices to him? Who does he think he is, telling me what I wear and what I care about? Could he possibly believe he knows my mind better than me? Why must we have such a silly disagreement?
Perhaps pacifism has its merits, after all. So rather than go down this futile road, I just stare out the window and say, hmm.
Hmm, of course meaning: you are full of shit and I can't stand your sorry ass.

cc'd to death...

Granted, this is a minor annoyance, but I think it speaks volume about trust (or lack thereof) in our relationship.
If husband is emailing with any of our friends about, for instance, weekend plans, he insists on cc'ing me on all communication, and gets peeved when I don't do the same.
He has gotten angry in the past when I took the liberty of replying for myself ("yes, I'm up for that!") without checking with HIM first, even though we were both on the email list, saying it doesn't look like we are operating as a "team". He has also taken issue with me in the past for corresponding with our male friends and not cc'ing him in the email, surmising, I guess, that we are flirting furiously - cc'ing him on these potentially dangerous liaisons keeps them on the up and up, I guess.
In which case, perhaps he should carry around a tape recorder and make sure he captures any conversations he may have around the water cooler that might be inappropriate. Really, why stop at email?
His puritan upbringing shines through in these moments. I expect something like "You're dancing with the devil" to come out of his mouth at times like these, but of course he is careful to phrase it every other way but that.
Have I mentioned lately that I hate my marriage?

Eat, Pray, Love... if only!

A few years ago, as I was preparing to go on a little trip and looking for reading material, I bumped into an acquaintance of mine who told me, "Oh, you must read Eat, Pray, Love - it changed my life!"
So thinking this was what I had been waiting for all these years, and surely would either be my Holy Grail or Fountain of Youth in the guise of a book, I RAN - literally - to the nearest book store to buy my copy.
I was half way through it before my vacation began, impatiently speed reading it to find what, indeed, was life changing about Elizabeth Gilbert's experience.
I never did find it, although I enjoyed the book for what it was: one woman's experience with divorce and the interesting year of introspection that followed it. And I would love to count Gilbert amongst my friends, clearly she is an interesting person I could have some great conversations with. But what's the big deal about two people splitting up early in a marriage, dividing their assets (and perhaps friends), and sailing off into the sunset?
I do remember reading, and re-reading, the passage near the beginning where she wakes up in the middle of the night and decides to leave her husband. I kept looking for a clue: where did this conviction come from?? And why couldn't I have had a similar experience BEFORE children came into the mix? Sadly (for me, anyway) it seems to be a case of too little too late.
Watching the newly released movie again reminded me of the frustration I felt when reading the novel: divorce, without children involved, just seems like an entirely different beast. They don't ever need to see each other again, let alone talk at length about issues surrounding children.
And as for the year spent traveling to Italy, India and Bali - well, let's just say I salivate to think about spending an evening on my own in my house, never mind a year in such interesting places. I applaud Elizabeth Gilbert for seizing the day, but I relate to her situation as much as I relate to the idea that a young prince will knock at my door and carry me away from this tower that holds me prisoner: not likely to ever happen.
It is all - like most books I read - wishful thinking.
There is no possibility of a year long vacation for me. Instead I have taken up piano (left brain exercise, like learning Italian) and continue to do my yoga podcasts in my own studio (read: living room) while my kids are at school, and dream about, well, a lot of things: a divorce that would be as simple as hers, a marriage that actually worked, or simply the day when I am no longer tortured by the decision to stay or leave this marriage.

Marriage is supposed to be hard...

I know it's not a cakewalk. But shouldn't you be able to laugh at things together, rather than constantly butt heads? If you can't - and indeed, never - laugh together at anything, surely that is a sign that it's time to pack it in?
I have asked him to be less controlling and uptight, but I know people are who they are, this may be trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. And of course he points out that I am not accepting him for who HE is, but he is the one who is bound and determined to make this marriage work, while I am prepared to call it a day.
"But partners are supposed to make each other better," he argues.
Of course, I don't agree, and tell him I would take a self improvement course if I wanted to improve myself. I believe my partner is supposed to provide love and support for the flawed person I may be (flawed meaning I may keep a pile of papers in the corner of the counter rather than in the filing cabinet where I will surely forget their existence, not flawed in the serious drinking habit sense...), and stand behind the direction I decide I want to grow, rather than stand in my way at every turn.
A classic example is I have decided I enjoy reading more than watching television, so once the kids are in bed I crack open my book rather than sit beside him watching television. This has created a boatload of problems for him (I'm lonely! I can't talk to you when you read! Now we have no time to discuss things!) But it's hard to get any intellectual stimulation when you are unloading a dishwasher or chauffeuring children around to activities, so this has become my lifeline for my declining brain cells, as well as the way I want to relax every night, I tell him. It falls on deaf ears and he continues to moan every night.
How hard would it be to give in to this minuscule request?
And this, sadly, is typical of the tussles we have: the little things in life that I feel one way about, and he feels another, need to be debated at length at every turn. I am exhausted, and don't feel up to arguing any more than I feel like giving in to his request.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Really, who wasn’t inspired by Julie and Julia? After watching that I bonked myself on the forehead and said, why didn’t I think of that? 

If millions are interested in some woman cooking her way through a French cookbook, surely some poor soul would be interested in my train wreck of a marriage.  And so I propose:

If I write everyday about the ins and outs of my marriage, good and bad (though you should be forewarned, there is extremely little good…) surely you will get an idea of what the hell I should do: stay or go.  And if nothing else, it will be an outlet for me; a journal of sorts, but one that is on record and can’t be tossed into the garbage bin (like I did with my old journals that he was so disapproving of, lest they contain negative commentary about him, which they were indeed full of.  I’m less influenced by his disapproval these days, I hasten to add.)
We did try marriage counseling for six months, but were very quickly going broke because of it and seemed to be going nowhere fast.  If money was no object we would still be going.

Of course, anonymity is of chief concern here in this blog, as even my now cold-hearted self can understand he would be outraged and hurt, to say the least, should he find out that our marriage is the subject matter of a blog.  Although it would give me some perverse pleasure, I must admit, given he is a very private, all about image, don’t ask don’t tell kind of guy.  But for my sake (and who’s kidding who, it is all about me at the end of the day!) if you figure out who I am, mum’s the word.

First, a little preamble.  He is, as he points out to me quite regularly, not a bad person.  He works hard at his profession (ALL for us, he assures me, even as he heads out for yet another round of golf or to Las Vegas for a meeting, NONE of this is any fun, he promises), and he is an extremely dedicated, if too indulgent, father (the kind who caves too easily when the children beg for the toy that I have refused them all week).

He was raised in an extremely religious family, one whose views are so radically different from my own that I am relegated to discussing only the weather.  Anything else would result in uncomfortable moments fraught with tension.  His father frequently hushes his mother: if he had his way it would be wives, not children as the old saying goes, that should be seen and not heard. 

He was brought up as the cherished only son in a small family, the star athlete who wasn’t allowed to go to school dances (since dancing could only lead to things that the devil surely approved of).  Their idea of a good time was having tea after church every Sunday.

I, on the other hand, was one of several children in a raucous family, my parents too busy trying to provide for our family to give me much notice or any boundaries like a curfew. They drank and smoked and peppered their phrases with “oh my god!” and “for Christ’s sake!” and never paid much notice to table manners (I acquired those slowly over time by quietly watching and learning and mimicking, although the bread plate still gives me some grief). We knew we were loved, although it wasn’t ever said, unless it was Christmas Eve and the Crown Royal was flowing.  And come hell or high water, we went to church on Sunday, and confession twice a year.  Religious in the polar opposite sense of the word.

It’s an understatement to say we have extremely different backgrounds.  He grew up under a microscope, while I went about my business unnoticed.  Therapy has taught me (duh!) that not having that structure in my formative years made me crave it; so there was a certain allure to his family for me.  Like honey to a bee, I was drawn to it, although it is hard to write about it now without cringing, or recount it to friends and not say, ”WHAT was I thinking???”

The model that my husband was subjected to is one where a wife having independent thoughts and ideas (not to mention a livelihood) of her own was foreign – and perhaps dangerous - concept.  I don’t think my mother-in-law has ever ventured across the street without first informing her husband and gaining his approval.  In my own humble opinion this influence on his life has been a big source of problems in our fifteen year marriage.

That old saying that opposites attract played an instrumental role in our early courtship and in my decision to marry this man who is clearly very different from myself.  My twenty-one year old self was carefree, social, and left leaning.  He was a graduate student, intelligent, serious and conservative.  Although I kick myself now, since after all, we are who we are, I told myself then that he would be good for me; I could use a little kick in the pants since school was finishing and I was venturing into the wide, wide world.  He would surely help to refine me; if I stuck with him surely success would follow.

It’s funny how things lead to things, and before I knew it I was walking down the aisle, my boisterous and loud family acting like they are in a circus ring (I’m pretty certain I saw some objects flying through the air before I started down the aisle…), his family sober, quiet, and respectful on the other side, fully horrified and surely whispering about the goings on across from them. 

I think it’s fair to say neither of us were over the moon in love, ever.  It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time, to settle down with each other and think about starting a family.  Our first child was born a couple of years into our marriage, our second and third children following at even intervals.  Presto: a functional, if not always happy, family is born. 

And so now we are living the dream: professional father, stay-at-home mother, three cute kids, nice house, nice vacations.  Friends scour my photo albums and remark “you all look so happy!”  It’s easy to smile for a camera, I tell them.

Slowly resentment has grown to be our gigantic elephant in the room on both sides: he is resentful that I have time to brush my teeth in the morning and actually fit a workout in now that the children are in school; I am resentful that he has no idea and no respect for what I do all day, having sacrificed my career after our second child was born (fielding ten phone calls from him a day asking how our child was doing in daycare was tough to deal with, so I packed it in.)

The reality of that dream isn’t so pretty from my perspective: he is controlling, uptight, and has a drastically different outlook on life (Life should be hard! Strive for excellence in all areas!  Now that we are parents, it is all about the kids!) from my own, and discards any of my outlooks as selfish, lazy or hedonistic (those might include: life is short, let’s have fun! Let’s do things with other families and be social! I want to continue to be an interesting, dynamic individual, not just a mom!)  Turns out, we each want to live completely differently.

It is not lost on me that my situation seems atypical.  It is more common to hear of the husband who doesn’t know his kids exist, or the guy who can’t give up golfing every weekend with his buddies to spend time with his family, so I understand this may be hard to relate with.  I dream about a husband who wants to go out with his friends for beers, or wants to go on a guys trip – and I frequently suggest he do this to add some balance to his life, have a little fun.  (Life isn’t all about fun, he replies.)

I love my kids and have been happy to raise them in close proximity, 24-7, although I have certainly had crazy moments where I fantasize about getting in my car and driving into the sunset, never to be heard of again.  It’s fair to say I find it easier now that they are older and more independent; diapers, sippy cups and car seats no longer playing an instrumental role.  Yet there is a heaviness that follows me around, like a cloud above my head, that continually chants “I can’t stand my husband,” and I’m not sure what it will take for me do something about this bad situation- what will be the final straw: Affair? Cancer diagnosis? Leaving the cap off the toothpaste? 

It perhaps would be easier to do if he were a raging alcoholic, womanizer, bad father, or just a dead beat, but he is none of these.  We are simply incompatible, I surmise.  He refutes this, saying we must stay together for the sake of the children; he will never leave.  If anything is to change I will have to initiate it.
So, my mission in the next year is to decide: should I stay or should I go??