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.