Me, MomSelf and I

Life's journey is full of twists and turns and sometimes we get lost. This is my journey to rediscover myself.


2 Comments

Twelve Years of Marriage

There is something to being in the club of “the marrieds.”

I fell into the trap. You know the one where society tells young women that they must find a husband and be married by the age of 30, or risk forever being branded an old maid. I mean, once you’re out of college and enter the workforce, if you don’t already have a significant other, it seemingly becomes harder and harder to naturally meet someone. For me, my partner would either come from the bars and clubs, coworkers or mutual friends. Internet dating had not yet hit its stride and was still somewhat of a novelty.

I remember being in such a hurry to get married. We had lived together for 2 years and I felt like, why am I still auditioning? I should already have the part! (Because subconsciously I knew the clock was ticking until my 30th birthday.) And J’s attitude was, what’s the rush? I’m not going anywhere. I’m all in. Why do we need the pomp and circumstance? (That is not the only time I wish I had listened to him.) And it’s not that I would’ve made a different decision about marrying him. But I would’ve taken some time to find out what it meant to me to be a wife and what being a wife meant to him. We had the boyfriend/girlfriend thing down. But being married was more of a challenge. Years 1 & 2 were us trying to navigate the transition from 2 individuals becoming a united entity, and neither of us knew how to do that. So we hit some bumps. Then when we thought we had it figured out (although we didn’t,) we decided to start a family. I was reluctant, despite wanting to be a mother my whole life, only because I took it so seriously. I didn’t give being married much thought because I assumed once you found the person you were supposed to be with, everything would magically fall into place. All you need is love! J convinced me to start our family by saying both of our parents were getting older and he really wanted them to see and know their grandchildren. I couldn’t argue with that. So I threw myself into an intensive 13-month parent training. By the time Xander was born, I felt pretty prepared to be his mother. And its safe to say that the next 9 years of marriage that includes 2 more kids, 2 deceased grandfathers and a dog have been a blur. J’s father passed away 2 weeks before our first son was born and my dad passed 1 week before our second son arrived.

There are so many articles and books about how women can have “it all.” (Ironically, none about how the family can have it all, so much responsibility put on the woman-or that we assume.) Of course I’ve been too busy to read them anyway. I realized I did all my preparation on how to be a parent and barely any training on how to be a wife, let alone a wife raising children. Hence the reason I started this blog. I am on a quest to discover how these roles can best work together: wife, mother, individual.

In this day and age of 72-day marriages, 12 years is a long time. But its really all about perspective. If you’re miserable, then 12 years is forever. If you’re happy, 12 years is but a day. My parents were married 41 years, my husband’s parents 28. You don’t get to 20, 30, 40 years of marriage without some ups & downs. Some marriages are better than others, just as some kids are better behaved than others, some houses are nicer than others or some jobs pay more than others. And no one ever really knows what goes on in a marriage except the 2 people in it. The one thing I know about myself is I’m a long haul type of person. I want to be that couple holding hands and comparing  memories of our 40 years together.

Traditional 12th anniversary materials are silk and linen, representing luxury and comfort. While we definitely are not living in the lap of luxury, there is comfort in knowing someone else is in this life with me. Someone else has chosen me. It is a luxury to share responsibility of parenting. There is comfort in knowing someone has my back. It is a luxury now to be able to say to him “remember how we felt when so and so was born, or when we decided to…” Those shared memories and experiences, that commitment to be here day in, day out, this love that is real and complicated and fun and hard and luxurious and comfortable, this is what marriage means to me.

So, on this day, through:

12 years of Marriage
11 hairstyles
10 cars
9 years of parenting
8 weddings attended
7 funerals of family members
6 job transitions
5 family vacations
4 hospitalizations
3 amazing kids
2 places called Home
1 new dog
and countless “I’m sorrys” and “I love you’s,” I say thank you for asking me to be your wife 12 years ago, for giving me the best 3 gifts of my life, and being my partner in crime. Happy Anniversary Honey!wpid-20150613_211125.jpg


1 Comment

Death, Birth, and Rainbows: All Love

My second son was born 7 days after my father died from a 14-month bout with throat cancer.  Part of the reason I wanted to get pregnant again was because I knew he was dying.  At the time, it seemed like the only way I could keep him alive.  It was during my pregnancy that I started therapy.  I figured I had a pretty good set up for postpartum depression, and I wanted to prepare for its inevitability. I was so convinced it would happen, I actually saw 2 therapists. One would listen and give me practical advice and the other would make me work to come up with my own answers.  I valued both.

As we were planning the funeral, we had to schedule the burial and the only day available was my due date. And the military cemetery was an hour away.  So I decided I couldn’t go. It rained all that day, which was appropriate, because my dad loved the rain, thunderstorms especially. Sure enough, that morning, as my mother and sister were driven to the burial site, I started having contractions.  They return literally in the nick of time.  My son was born at 7:17 pm and just minutes before he made his debut in this world, a bright, beautiful rainbow appeared outside our window.

As my son has grown, he has been fixated on pictures of my dad.  Since he began talking, one of his most repeated phrases is “Grandpa died.”  For the longest, I wondered, why does he keep saying that? It hurts me every time I have to explain to him that, yes, Grandpa died, but even though he’s not here, he loves you and your brother and sister anyway.  But what I now believe is that he says it over and over because he knows.  He met my dad in that space and time in the universe between life and death, and he is trying to tell me, Grandpa died, but his love hasn’t. Because it lives through him. He is Grandpa’s love.

So this year, as he turns 2 and we acknowledge another year since my dad passed, I will have a new perspective, a dual celebration.  I will celebrate my son’s birthday and the abundance of love that my dad still showers me with, through my baby.