The Men in My Life

It’s been a little while since I’ve written so I thought I would tell you about the men in my life.  Comfy?  Ok.  Me too, cuddled up in my afghan and with a steaming cup of tea.

When my husband and I separated, I was around age 60 and one of the things I thought about was would I ever find love again? I felt old, used up, unattractive, and just lost without my partner.  Of course, since then I’ve realized he wasn’t really the partner I thought he was, and while we had many good and loving moments, raised a son together, and have gone through a lot as a couple, growing old together wouldn’t have been how I envisioned it because we weren’t best friends.

So fast forward to now. No men in my life expect two-my son and my grandson.  My son and I don’t see a lot of each other.  We’re both busy with our own thing but as I’ve written before, he was my rock throughout the separation and divorce and sharing the house with him gives us each our own space and just enough together time that we don’t drive each other crazy.  It’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone to bounce ideas off of, and his presence makes the house “alive.”

And then there’s my grandson. He’s a beautiful boy, bright, active, a handful at times, but a good boy.  He’s 3 ½ and his teacher says that he knows all the sounds of letters and could be reading soon.  (Can you say proud grandma?)  We read all the time but his favorite thing is for me to make up stories.  He climbs up on the couch next to MeMa’s seat, cuddles up, and tells me what the story should be about.  When I first started doing this, I would try to get him to chime in but he wouldn’t.  But now he’s director and script writer and if I say the wrong thing I hear “MeMa, I’m very angry.  You aren’t listening.”  Most of the stories feature whatever toys he’s interested in such as his bison but now he’s interested in Super heroes as well.  This boy loves stories and can sit through a dozen if I have enough brain power to think of that many!  I love him beyond my imaginings.  Having a grandchild is such a different experience than being a parent.  And he and I have a special bond.  I try to keep my common sense in the forefront but all it takes is “MeMa, I’m so excited to see you.  I missed you”, and I melt.

So these two are my “men.” And I’m very happy with the trade.  I never realized how much “work” my husband was.  It’s so nice to not have to cook if I don’t want to, do laundry whenever I feel like it, grocery shop only once in a while…my time is my own.  I can eat in bed, stay up all night, or go to bed at 8.  If I snore, no problem.  If I want the fan on, no problem, blankets off, blankets on, etc.  You get the idea. (I’m sleeping better too)  I did so many things for him, out of love and a desire to be a good wife, that I stifled “me”.  So along with sleeping better, going wherever I want, whenever I want to, my mind is freer and I feel more creative.

Please understand that I put myself in that type of wife “box” but of course, he liked it and didn’t protest. And because of that, I started becoming resentful and allowed myself to be taken for granted, something that I was only able to realize after the separation.  It actually brought me to quite a few realizations that had I done that soul searching sooner, I might have asked him to leave years ago or maybe things would have improved.  Who knows?.  He doesn’t get a pass but I did everything based on my vision of a wife.  Child care-all me.  Housework-all me.  Work full time, me.  When the hell did I sleep?  He worked long hours too but there was never any notice of how tired I might be and no helping hand offered.  Home was my job and I did my best to keep up.  He should have married Donna Reed!  OK.  Rant done.  But my point is that I’m so much happier without all of that burden.

So do I want to marry again? Right now, I think “no”.  For a few reasons.  First, after 30 years of marriage-done-wrong, I’m not sure how to do it right.  Second, I’m loving the freedom.  Third, there’s a tiny corner of my heart that still mourns and so far, that’s not going away or lessening, making no room for someone new. It’s not that I miss him, just that maybe he was “the one and only”.  I’ve always heard that some people only love one person.  Is that me?  Not sure.  I invested every fiber of my being in that marriage and maybe there’s nothing left.  I’m happily expanding my girlfriend time, eating out, going places.  I would like to add travel to that picture but so far work intrudes on that plan, but maybe in the near future.  If my health was better I’d go by myself and may do some exploring alone anyway.  You know, those senior bus trips!  But I guess time will tell.

It’s been nice sharing this time with you but I need to be out and about, running errands, meeting friends for coffee, and just enjoying freedom.  We’ll talk again soon.

Shelley

Goodbye to My Husband

While sitting here thinking, reminiscing about the past, the thought comes into my head that I need to say goodbye to my husband. We have been living apart for a year now, though separated for several years before that, me not moving out because of expense and him not moving, I guess, because he wanted me to. But anyway, we stayed in the home and he did what he wanted while I tried to show him that we were worth a second chance while also trying to find a job and accumulate as much money as I could. Our history goes back 40 years; who would have thought we would end up apart? So here’s the story.

I first met him at about age 21 while at my girlfriend’s house. Her husband brought him home for dinner and I happened to be there. It was “something” at first sight, not sure what, but he had just broken up with someone and had a baby so I wouldn’t get involved even though he chased the hell out of me until we finally went our separate ways. Several years later, about age 28, that same husband of the same girlfriend ran into him and brought him home to surprise me. It was a shock but it also was immediately like cupid’s arrow had hit me in the heart. All of the old feelings rushed back; he was alone and I was alone and within a few days, he proposed and moved into my apartment.

The first year was wonderful. We set the date for our wedding and spent every hour together that we could. He had a business and a lot of my off-work time was spent there, bringing hot meals and hanging out, keeping him company after hours. It was wonderful. And then I got pregnant. Unexpected, unplanned, but we were happy about it and moved up our wedding date. However, little cracks began to form between us. I worked full time in retail, on my feet all day, tired all the time, a little crabby, things not quite right between us, but still good. We thought it was the stress, the baby, the wedding, too much work, etc.

So, we married one weekend and then went right back to work, no honeymoon, saving money for baby, who was born right before Christmas. A beautiful, healthy baby boy. My husband was so proud. He had a son. But he was also a truck driver. So the first year of marriage, the first year of parenthood, he was away a lot, and I was too nervous as a new mother to go in the truck with him and we started to grow apart. And little by little, we grew further apart. I developed horrible PMS, he was diagnosed with PTSD (Viet Nam Veteran and a Marine) and chasms began opening up. A lot of detail isn’t necessary here but suffice it to say, we argued a lot. Being a Marine was a part of who my husband was, and is, and I didn’t have a clue what that meant so that made the struggles even harder. There is a lot of personal information that I will not write about but history plays a huge role here and understanding came too late.

So, I met him when I was about 21 and now I’m 64. I often think that getting together the first time we met would have given us more time to become better friends, to grow together, to learn each other, and to have a better chance of making it, but it wasn’t to be. And a few years ago, he told me that he didn’t want to be married anymore, he still loves me, but he isn’t good at relationships, etc., etc. And, of course there was another woman encouraging him to do what will make him happy, why stay when he isn’t happy, etc., etc. You know. So a little over a year ago, he moved out while I was in the hospital and here we are. Since my son and his family live with me, I see my husband regularly and it has taken me a long time to be able to deal with that. But guess what?

I now realize that I am better off without him, should have left one of the many times I thought about it, and am finally much happier than I was for a long time. It was very wearing to always be trying to prove I was a good wife, to always be putting him first, to always champion his causes, to try to understand what was going on, and to deal with a marriage that was not how I wanted it but feeling powerless to change it. I feel free; I feel happy. And when I see him now, I still think he looks good but I’ve worked very hard to not care and to not long for him. I even got a tattoo to symbolize my broken heart, thinking that the pain of the needle would somehow lessen my heart pain, but of course, it didn’t. Sure, I still have sad moments, like today which is why I’m writing this, but also I can be happy without him. Now he is the other woman’s problem and just maybe she is a better fit for him. He wore me out and I’m glad to be done.

My spirit is lighter and I have come to realize just how much that marriage dragged me down and influenced choices I made. It feels good to do what I want, when I want, and not be responsible for taking care of someone else. Would I like another relationship? Maybe. But it would have to be really special before I would invite that person all the way into my life again. For now, sleeping alone in my own bed is fine, with just Rocky for company and my little family in the other rooms.

Yup, I’m happy. Hard earned but true. Goodbye Bill.

My Dad

Me and Dad!

My Dad died in 1998.  He was a special man and I loved him dearly.  At the time of his death, he had just been in the hospital for bypass surgery and came through it well.  He was sitting up in recovery, asking for a sandwich, and if you knew my dad, you would know that it was so typical of him.  He loved to eat.  He did so well that they told me to go home and get a change of clothes, eat, and then come back for visiting hours but when I walked in the door the phone was ringing and he was dead.  He had a heart attack and from what I remember, his heart just exploded because the walls were very thin from a medication he had to take for myasthenia gravis.  He looked so good when I left so this was totally shocking to hear.  He had a military burial, WWII veteran, and we all tried to move forward with our grief.  I always thought Dad was the soul of the family and it was so hard without him.

My dad had many things that I loved about him, one being that whenever I would visit we would go look through his top drawer where he had cards we kids had made him, little mementos, pictures, just stuff that he saved.  We would look through the pictures and he would talk about the people in them and the old days.  I loved those times together.  When we kids had kids, he started adding their notes and things to the drawer so it was quite full and it would always take a bit of time to go through.  When my son was old enough, he started showing him the things in the drawer and it became a special time for them too.

My Dad grew up in Newark, NJ and lived across the street from my mom.  They didn’t have much to do with each other when they were young but after he came out of the service, there she was!  He always told us that he picked her out of all the girls because she could peel an orange so well, and she could!  He was an Italian American and she was of English/German descent.  They married in 1947 and were married for 50 years when he died.

At the time of his death, he had a special Christmas Cactus that he had potted in a big old bowl, I guess it was for plants but he would have loved to see it filled with pasta.  Anyway, I asked my mom if I could have it and brought it home.  I sort of felt that it represented him and I hung it from a hook in a macramé planter that I had made, hoping that I could keep it alive.  I was afraid to overwater it so was sparse with the attention I gave it, almost like I would jinx it if I did too much.

It’s now 2014 and that plant did not get flowers in all that time but this past Christmas, it did!  Two flowers.  I don’t know what made it bloom because I’ve been doing my usual with it, just watering it every two weeks or so, afraid that I might kill it.  And now it’s February and it’s getting more flowers.  I can’t figure it out but when I saw those flowers, I started to cry.  I think it’s a sign from my Dad, anyway, I want to believe that it is. In any case, I’m going to see it as a sign to not give up, that things will get better, that my Dad still is there loving me, and that my life will bloom again.

I love you Dad.