“Do you even love me?”
As soon as the words left my lips I wanted to take them back. What if he said no? Why would I ask a question that I clearly wasn’t ready to hear the answer to.
My husband and I are nowhere near perfect, but we have always been…together…best friends…there. For fifteen years we have fought, resolved and rose from the ashes stronger than before. I think that has always been our talent, we can handle it all. We don’t always handle it gracefully, but we manage. When we were in college he once got wasted at a bar and threw up in my purse. Of course he was promptly booted from the establishment. I was so worried about him I too left and went to his house to make sure he was ok. He opened the door and told me I smelled like puke, his puke. When I was pregnant with our first daughter I was so petrified to miscarry a second time that I basically ignored his every sexual desire, convinced that it would result in fetal demise, for nearly a year. I didn’t give a rip about his needs, truly I didn’t.
Somehow we prevailed. We made it through college, careers, career changes, kids, more kids, butt loads of kids, no matter the storm we have always weathered it. This time felt different though. Our communication has sucked lately. We have become the definition of ships in the night. He goes to work before the sun peeks over the horizon, I take care of the house and the kids all day long, he comes home from work at bedtime. We do the sport- runs, the homework, the play dates, the baths, the shit. Then we decompress…separately. He frogs around on his phone, sometimes I do the same. I work on my blog, he plays Clash of Clans. We retreat.
Sure we meet in the middle of our marital bed to do what married people do, but back to our spaces we return afterwards, convinced that we need sanctuary even from each other. How wrong we are.
#FABFRIDAYPOST BLOGGER OF THE
The Tale of Mummyhood