Anonymous Commentors, Start Your Engines

I still am stuck on the statistic I read a while ago that stated the average couple engages in meaningful conversation for only 15 minutes a day. Chats about what’s for dinner and adjective-free recaps and calendar updates don’t count. That is horrifying, yet completely plausible. There is a certain comfort in being able to share space without having to fill it with chatter or small talk, but, at the same time, it is so easy to slide from that comfort zone into relationship distance. That transition from family of two to family of more is difficult. I can totally see how couples can grow apart after raising kids, and divorce after 20 years or more of marriage. As parents we all become a super-sized, overextended version of ourselves. And our focus is immediately divided. What’s best for a family isn’t always what’s best for a couple.

I bought a book once about important questions that every couple should discuss before they marry, and Nicole and I used to read them and answer them over dinner. Questions like “How do you see the division of household duties” and “what kind of retirement do you envision.” It was a great exercise and I really enjoyed it. I wish we could do that more, but dinner these days aren’t conducive to meaningful conversations. That said, I think we do okay with the whole talking thing, maybe better than this 15 minute average. But I think we could do a lot better. Or, more to the point, I wish we could do a lot better. Life always gets in the way.

And it is not just abut talking: It’s about listening too. I have to work hard all the time to be a better listener. Usually, I am the talker and Nicole is the listener in this relationship. I can talk for hours; she can sum up her thoughts in four words or less. This dynamic can implode at times, because sometimes the listener needs to talk and feel like she is being heard. So when Nicole is talking about how sad she is that her sister’s dog just died, I have to literally stop myself from talking about how sad I was when my dogs died; about how I read an article about how pet grief is treated by therapists; etc. Instead, I tried to just listen and not bring it back to me. Novel, no?

About a week ago (maybe more) I had a mini breakdown. I think it was hormonally enhanced, but I just had one of those Future Attacks, when I worry about who I am and where I am going and who I am going to be in five years, ten years and twenty years. It is a familiar refrain for me and I have a feeling I will be struggling with this for the rest of my life.

It is very easy when you are a caretaker to lose sight of who you are and what you want. Yes, I wanted to be a mother, badly, and yes, I want to stay home with my children, and I am happy with all of the choices I have made in my life (with a few notable exceptions) but, at the same time, the me who I thought I was seems like such a distance memory and the me who I thought I would be seems like a pipe dream. Stopping drinking adds a dimension to this too because for years, the bar-hopping drinking girl was imbedded in my identity. Part of me will always be the girl who will drink you under the table. And now I am the girl who cleans up food scraps under the table.

Nicole handled the crying jag really well, and even devised a project for me designed to help me clarify where I want to go, which I should be working on now, instead of writing this. It’s all about balance balance balance. I need time for me and time for us and time for the four of us as a family and time with friends and time with family. I need time to write and create and read and relax. And all of these things need to be smushed in between taking care of the girls and the house.

Writing really is a great barometer as to my mood and disposition. These days I am struggling to write new posts because, once again, I am trying not to write about what I need to be/should be writing about. And a play-by-play of my days is just not interesting. Who am I am? Where am I going? Do I define myself by my relationships, my accomplishments or a combination of those two things? I am really good at burying things inside me and avoiding them. And when I do that, I can’t write; at least, I can’t write anything of meaning. Coming up with sentences that string together in paragraphs that make sense become impossible. But I can still be a mean bullet list!

I have a couple of intenser-than-just update posts that are digging deeper into this issue, but don’t want to get into them now, since it is the holiday season and there is so much to do and so many places to be. And besides, you people are busy with your own lives and I need attention and suggestions and ideas and guidance, which you may not be able to provide since you are wrapping presents and all. But please stand by, because I will be needing the Internet wisdom very soon.

Or, if you feel like it, leave another anonymous comment sharing what you are struggling with in your life or your relationships. I feel like the more people talk about issues, the more we all realize we are not alone and the more chances we have to surmounting said problems. At least that works for me.

Pictured above, a green, earth friendly toy (kind of). I froze a couple of plastic toys from a sorter set in a chunk of ice and let the girls go to town with it the kitchen floor. They played with it for a half hour! It was very cute, watching them explore this ice with most of their senses. They were kicking it back and forth between themselves. And it ended as play sessions usually end: With the toy (ice) in their mouth.