Marriage Talk and Divorce Talk

As we ate dinner, we were listening to Macklemore and Ryan Lewis song “Same Love.”  I really like the song, and I think the boys should be exposed to good music and good causes.

Tornado E: Mommy,why do you like this song?

Is this the time to talk about this?  Should he know?  But then he’s already exposed to Ron Paul beating up Obama and Obama is against the military.  Thank you socialization at school and ill-informed parents.

So yes.

Me: Because it’s beautiful.  It celebrates all love and equality for everyone.

Tornado E: Boys marry girls.  But boys marry boys?  Eww.

Me: Why?

Tornado E: It’s gross.

Me: Love is not gross.  If it is real, healthy love, it’s beautiful.  Love is God.  If two boys love each other, then they should be able to get married if they want.  Or have a family if they want.

Tornado E: I don’t know.  I don’t think I want to marry a boy.

Me: You don’t have to.  You can marry whoever you fall in love with as long as it’s real love.  Everyone should be able to.

Tornado E: I still don’t want to love a boy.

Me: (laughing) Then fall in love with a girl.

Tornado S: I love everyone in the whole world!

Me: Good job, Tornado S.  We should love everyone.  Right now, we’re talking about a love that makes people want to marry.  Like Nana and Papi.

Tornado E: Why didn’t you say you and Daddy?

And we have found a dangerous path.

Me: Because Daddy and I aren’t married any more.

Tornado S: You should get married then!

Me: We were.  But now we are not.

Tornado E: Why?

Why?  The question that worries me.  They deserve the Truth.  But when they are ready.  Because it is their story too.  But they are too young to understand the mistakes, the issues, the choices, the stupidity of it all.  The things that are a war on marriage, more damaging than two men or two women getting married.  No one’s marriage destroyed my own.  He and I did it.  While he dealt the fatal blow, I helped tear it down too.  But a 7 year-old, a 5 year-old, and a 2 year-old do not need to know all that.  They do not need a white lie either.  They don’t need to hear the bs excuse of “we fell out of love” or “we are too different of people.”  Honestly.

I took a deep breath.

Me: It’s complicated.  It’s very complex, so you’ll have to wait until you’re older for a full answer.  But basically, we made mistakes.  Some people didn’t want to change.  (Ok, I didn’t say I would give the perfect answer.  Damn.)  But no matter what, your daddy and I love you boys very much.  More than we can say.  You are more important than anything else in this world.  (I looked each of them in the eyes.)  I love you.  You are wonderful boys.

Tornado E nodded.

Tornado S: Can we have dessert now?  I ate all my food.

Thin mints!  Chocolate!  That’s what we need!

I needed lots of chocolate.  Because as far as complicated, complex, oh-man-being-a-parent-is-so-hard talks, this didn’t go so badly.

It’s the first one in a long run of them, isn’t it?

Damn.

Dark Confessions

I wanted to write this post last week because it was bad last week, but then I stumbled on some truths that I didn’t know if I wanted to share.  Once I open my mouth, it’s like an avalanche.  Ask anyone who knows me.  But I feel I have to write because it’s going to seep in, like it always does every time, like smoke seeping into clothes, furniture and walls.  It’s seeping into me.

I noticed I was loosing patience with the boys.  It wasn’t like I had a hard day or they were being especially on the throttle.  I couldn’t smile when they were being actively cute-crazy.  I just wanted to be done.

Then I noticed I was tired.  Bone wary tired.  In a time when I shouldn’t be.  Even if I napped or drank lots of water, even if I took it easy.

Then I noticed I was sad.  Not sad in that was a sad movie or the sadness that comes from watching horrible events on the news that make you feel helpless.  No, this was a sadness that went to the core of my soul.  A depression.

Crap, I’m depressed.

Since I have a history of depression, I know I have to take this seriously.  I have to mark on my calendar when I’m depressed.  I have to analyze my thoughts.  I have to do something or I slip away, slowly but surely, from everything that I love and everything I am.

I’ve made a brief nod to my teenage depression, where it got so bad that I was actually coming up with plans of killing myself.  Frightening plans of when, Monday nights because everyone would be at the Boy Scout meeting, where, my bedroom, how, cutting.  I was able to ask for help when I realized I was starting to look for the perfect dress.  Stupid and creepy.

Then I had depression in college, but my parents were able to cue in the warning signs, insisting I go to a counselor, who helped me tremendously.

So last week when I began writing, I was going to say that I never was depressed during pregnancy.  I had the two bouts before, and I had a bout of post-partum after Tornado E.  But other than that I was fine.

Then I started thinking.  When I was pregnant with Tornado E, I insisted that The Husband and I start martial counseling.  We needed it.  We weren’t able to go more than a few times because I had a horrible work schedule that was never posted until the day before the week began.  You can imagine how hard it was to set a haircut appointment, much less a counseling appointment.

Then during my pregnancy with Tornado S, The Husband and I had our worst time in our marriage.  We fought a lot.  He would yell and call me names, but the worst part was he would just leave, disappearing how ever long he wanted, never calling, leaving me to worry.  I wanted us to go back to counseling, and he refused.  I went any ways, learning more about myself and about The Husband.  It looked like all Hell was about to break loose when The Husband all of a sudden reigned in the month before Tornado S was born and for some reason I never got post-partum even though I was waiting for it, ready to battle it.

(As a side, we did end up going to counseling for a year, a year after Tornado S was born.)

Now I’m pregnant again.  Even though I knew our marriage wasn’t strong to begin with (And yes, people, I debated, prayed, meditated on this little fact before I got myself knocked up).  Now there are other issues, like The Husband having to work in California weeks at a time (which I understood and we make the most of) and money is tighter than it has ever been in our marriage (which causes stress on both The Husband and I).  And now I’m depressed.

I want to rail against it because this is not the right time.  I’m pregnant!  I have two boys that depend on me to be strong and with it, ready to play and laugh, moving at the speed of light with them.  I have a household to run.  I have other issues I have to deal with, like the real possibility I’m co-dependent.  I need to be strong.

If money wasn’t so tight, I’d march myself into a counseling office.  But that’s not really an option right now.  So I have to come up with other ways to deal with this.  Don’t worry; I plan on telling my OB/GYN this week at the appointment so she is well aware of the situation.  The Husband has been informed.  I figure I should cram in some exercise somewhere into my schedule and make it a real point to actually be out in the sun to soak in some rays, since I hear that’s suppose to help.  And I might have to use you all as a sounding board as I try to work through this because the best therapy I ever had was just to talk.  I hope I don’t come off as bitter when I do.

I’m just so upset over the whole thing.  I really didn’t need this right now.  I don’t want to cry every day.  I don’t want to feel like a shadow.  I don’t want to disconnect.  Depression is a horribly selfish disease because you can’t look beyond that stupid disease no matter how hard you try.  The twist is that you no longer take care of yourself because you are the disease and you just want it to die.

So here I stand in front of you, not knowing what to say, wondering about how lame this post is, wondering if I said too much or too little, knowing it really isn’t my best work, worrying about what you’ll think.

Berry Pie

Let’s go over this again.  How many pregnancies have we been through together?

Two.

So really you should know by now when I ask with a manic glint in my eyes for something specific, like a berry pie.  I mean a berry pie.  I would settle for a cobbler or a tart.  But I NEED the berries and the crust and NOTHING else.  It’s not my fault.  I’m not usually like this.  Sure, when I send you out for dessert, I expect something with chocolate, but you don’t understand that because you’re not a big chocolate guy.  I settle for what you bring.  Except when I’m pregnant.

So when you rush out to bring me my berry pie, I’m grateful.

But don’t get hurt when I look crushed, when I start to cry, when I see that you brought me a fresh fruit tart . . . with kiwi with the berries . . . with cream . . . with a crust that isn’t quite like a pie crust.  I know you tried.  I know you searched.  But I also know when I mentioned the frozen dessert section as a second resort that you waved me off saying you’ll just go to the pie section.

Don’t laugh when I start to cry in disappointment.  I’m emotional and irrational, and I cry at the drop of a hat.  I’m pregnant!  You try growing a baby, having your body morph in strange ways, be a washed in a sea of hormones.  See how normal you are.

Yes, you did the right thing bringing me a slice of tart to try since I ran away in tears, softly closing the bedroom door when I wanted to slam it (but the boys were sleeping). 

But don’t act hurt that I’m crying.  Of course, I’m going to yell at you.  I just vomited a bit because I started coughing because I was crying.  I can’t even have a good refreshing cry without that stupid cough making me more miserable.  I’m trying not to lose my dinner here with all those healthy vegetables and milk.   

Yes, I’m a big enough person to admit that I’m emotional and appreciative and that I shouldn’t have snapped at you.

But don’t act like I’m a basket case as I whip up a small berry crumble.  I would have done it before if I had the almonds I like using to make a bottom crust.  Yes, I’ll stay up late enjoying it.  Yes, the tart was fine.  You can have as much as you like.  You know what would go great with this crumble?  Vanilla ice cream.  No, we don’t have any.  But I know the stores aren’t closed yet.

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Moving the Library

According to iBooks, I own 253 books.  That does not include the reference books, like Thesauruses, Dictionaries, parenting books, and palmistry books.  It also does not include the dozen or so of cookbooks or the text books I plan to read one day.  (Ink: In my defense, I only dropped lit crit because the original professor, who believed you can only understand it through doing it in one massive paper, grew very ill and had to drop teaching, only to be replaced by a pompous ass, but I swear I’ll read the book.)  Nor does it include several titles that the system says does not exist. (Honestly does any one not read graphic novels!) This does not include the fifty or so books that belong to my husband, who will NOT reread his texts books.  It does not include the large amount of children’s books that I haven’t gotten around to counting yet. 

 

But this large library, and counting, does make it difficult to move, especially when the owner realizes she might not need every title in the next year.  So the night after The Decision, I began to fill small boxes with as many books as I could back.  As I packed the books, I typed out the title of each book, making a list to tape to the top of the box.  And the system worked well until I ran out of boxes, and you just wouldn’t believe how hard it is to dumpster dive with two little ones.  They tend to want to bring home unsavory objects or cut themselves on syringes.  (Kidding.  Kidding.  You throw them in to fetch.)

 

Without boxes, I began to worry about the horrible mess of letting someone just heap books into boxes and not being able to find my very favorites when I needed them.  I did what any good wife would do; I nagged my husband.  During the times he didn’t tune me out, he suggested I get rid of some books.  I am, thank you very much, and I do, but I keep everything I will read again, and I do.  Then he would rant about how I had too many, and I would remind him why I have so many.  Soon I wished he had ignored me like usual.

 

There is a reason for the large library other than my intense love for the written word.  Years ago when my husband and I were just shacking up, we combined our moneys early because we were engaged.  As the honeymoon was over, my husband would leave to hang out with his buddies, which wasn’t a big deal, except I was young, bored, and had few friends that stayed in the area after they graduated.  After several stupid arguments, I came up with a brilliant plan.  Believing that a lot of my grief was because I was a saver and he was a spender, I decided that every time he went out drinking, I would go to the bookstore.  At first, he was against the plan, saying “You’re never going to read those books again; it’s a waste of money.”  “Well, you’re never going to drink those beers again; at least I have something to show for spending the money.”  Then I went to the bookstore.

 

In the end, I had to give up writing all the titles on the boxes and move on to just writing the type of books, like religious or parenting.  I had one box marked with my favorites.  Written on top of the box was “Favorite books; lose this box and I own your soul.”  They were in the office waiting for me when I arrived and were the first ones on the book shelves.  Of course, there’s a huge possibility that I’m going to have to move the bookcase.  Damn.

 

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An Amendment

(Faemom peeks around the door, takes a deep breath, and runs to the key board to begin typing.)

 

Ok, I have to do this post seriously and this is like my thirtieth try.  Do you remember yesterday’s post, Hey is that a soap box?: Sugar Babies and Daddies?  Well, it turns out my husband read it too (and apparently he’s been reading my posts this week).  He read yesterday’s post and took away the valuable lesson that his wife is willing to divorce him at the drop of a hat. ————————-  (See THAT!  That was an edited joke.  *sigh* This is so hard.  Comedy is in my blood.  Ok, deep breath.)

 

Well, I’m not.  ———————– *take a deep breath*  I pointed out that if he decided he wanted  ————- a mistress that he was welcome to her as soon as we signed the papers, and damn straight, he was going to pay through the nose for the privilege. 

 

My husband would like to reassure my readers that he has no interest in finding some one else because ————— – he loves me.  (anditstooexpensive)  He loves the boys.  He loves our family.  He loves our home.  ———————–  He would never endanger that for some gold digger.  I believe him.  I also mentioned that he could always go on the blog and defend himself, like ck’s husband.  But he just threatened starting his own blog, and the scary part is he does internet marketing.

 

Ok.  Now I have to write something funny and email the full transcript to my best friend because I need to share with SOMEONE my comedic genius.