Sex-y Spouses

Seems there are well-worn paths and covert plans of action that coupling parents must engage in in order to have clandestine sex when sharing the house with teenagers-- teenagers who are too drunk on their own hormones to question why they're miraculously getting another thirty minutes to stay out after curfew.

I have one very young son and no husband to speak of, so at a dinner party this summer, I was enlightened. We sat, thigh to thigh, six or so couples and myself surrounding a centerpiece of white, summer garden hydrangea. No strangers among us, we were all friends; old friends married to childhood friends. The comments grew ribald, the laughter rolled and crescendoed and I had little to add on the subject, so I listened.

I listened carefully to their tone and noticed when they reached for their wine glasses. I looked at their spouses and tried to catch the signals-- shifts in posture, the timing of their sips, small smiles lit by candlelight-- and took it all in. I scanned the long, rectangular table and looked at their eyes for traces of something that might tell me more than what was being said. But I caught nothing because there was nothing to catch. Their smiles remained genuine and no one snapped or scolded. Maybe they do at home-- in fact I'm sure of it-- but here, at this dinner party, they laughed. They were simply folks who'd married their best friends. Under a spectacular seashell chandelier, rubbing elbows as they carved their fillet, they were well-fed and contented, and at this moment, they were in love.

Not dewy-eyed in love or Hey-world-we're-in-love, these couples had logged twelve, sixteen, eighteen years of marriage. They weren't trying to get pregnant and they weren't in competition, they just enjoy having sex with each other and so they do from time to time. They drive each other batty and go through painful, dark, rough patches but they work it out somehow and eventually wind up giggling together as they sneak around, in the dead of night, to the far guest bathroom while their in-laws lay sleeping.

The candles burned down as their banter trailed off. Then one of them announced that they'd all gotten together and hatched a plan to fix me up with one of the local, universally-understood-to-be-closeted gay men. I reached for my wine glass, took a breath, then a sip. I asked them why, if this man is such a catch, didn't any of them snap him up? For ten years, while they were all single and dating they could have had him. "How did such a gem of a guy slip by every single one of you," I asked, "and why is he so perfect for me?"

I know that they just want to see me happy and that their suggestion comes with the best of intentions, but haven't I illustrated, quite dramatically at times, that being married to the wrong person makes me unhappy? Don't they get that being with Any Guy or Some Guy is not the solution to being single? And isn't the greater problem the possible issue that being single, in their eyes, seems to be something that needs a solution and must be fixed at all costs and right away? Like that adhesive stripping that people stick around the cracks in their window jams in the winter. Quick, do something, anything.

I put down my glass and collected my thoughts. I explained that if I were going to be fixed up with a gay man that he'd better be a big queen. He'd better be hi-larious, love to dance and do my hair for special occasions. He'd better want to cook for me, travel with me and stop at every single yard sale from here to Bora-Bora. He'd better be gay with a capital G so loud that it jumps out of a cake wearing pasties. Otherwise, I'll pass on the mearly whelming patch job, thank you.

In the meantime, I find comfort knowing that there are husbands who go home to their families on Friday nights or who dance with their wives the whole time. I relish the minutia, I'm thrilled it exists. I see husbands cross the lawns at bar-b-ques with a glass in each hand and wordlessly give their wives the drink they didn't have to ask for. "It's cold, take my jacket." "When you're tired, we'll go." I'm privy to their pleases, thank- yous and, "Great haircut, Honey,"s and I log these moments with invisible ink. They've been doing it for so long that it's rote now: the non-verbal endearments; their knee-jerk kindness; the quiet, faceless kisses. The love.

I have a friend who's so crazy for his wife-- after seventeen years-- so flabbergasted that he caught such a dish, that he'll tell you outright, "I'm the luckiest bastard." Then shake his head in wonderment. Another guy I know was describing his life to me a while ago. He said offhandedly, "I get to commute in to work with my wife every day." He didn't say, "I commute in," or, "I have to commute in," but "I get to commute in." With my wife. Every day. What fortune, what a coup, what a life.

I know that their arguments have been fierce and their venom can be strong. I know there is imbalance and want. I can spot a floundering marriage from fifty yards away now, so attuned is my misery-dar in light of it's recent recalibration. But when a man touches the small of his wife's back as they cross a quiet street with no car in sight, or burrows his feet under her warm thigh from the chair next to the couch, where she's turning the page, just to be touching her, just to be near, just because he likes her, I'm comforted. That's my goal, if I must have one, to like and be liked. The love is easy.

Back at the dinner party, birthday candles were being blown out. When given the chance to sit anywhere, my friends had all chosen to sit next to their spouses. And why not, (they don't wonder), this is the person I chose. So until some one chooses me and I them, until that some one finds that sort of comfort in me, I'll pass. The view from where I'm sitting has it's fair share of perks. It may not be my first choice, but it's my choice at last and my standards haven't been lowered. On the contrary. The bar's been raised by the very same childhood friends passing plates of cake counter-clockwise. I want my cake and will eat it, too. Until then, I'm just fine.

Baby Mamma

I misunderstood the invitation’s homework assignment which is so typical of me in my state—that of a newly single mother, responsible for all the household finances, navigating a divorce and finding a job while raising a son to love his father when what I really want to do is whisper all the jerky things he’s done into his precious little ear as he sleeps.

The occasion was a baby shower for my girlfriend, Celeste. We were supposed to write letters to her gestating daughter to be read aloud at Saturday’s cocktail hour and again, in theory, when she’s older. I goofed and wrote a letter in the voice of the baby to her mother, but was forgiven by the crowd who’d assembled in the hotel’s lounge, wearing sundresses and sandals-- too giddy to notice the whir of Thomas Circle and still high from the lack of humidity during our spectacular day in D.C.

All baby showers are special, but this was ultra-special in that there’s no father in the picture. Celeste-- a well-respected, headstrong broad with a bright mind and glistening career-- decided to forge ahead with her unexpected pregnancy as women have done for centuries-- some of their own choice, many without. After logging myriad hours as aunt and dear friend to so many children who adored her, Celeste knew that this might be her last chance to cradle her own, so, tentative family and steadfast friends flew in to Washington from all over the country to fete the bravest woman in the room.

I had been her staunch supporter from the get-go, knowing first hand that not all babies’ fathers are the answer to the wail of two a.m. feedings or five p.m. colic. Many fathers need to be coerced into getting on the same parenting page concerning breastfeeding and bedtimes, discipline and diapers. Some fathers I know work late, go online, you-tube and tune out while others simply disappoint and disappear.

My estranged husband had been pretty good in many ways but the thought of having ample means to provide for a baby myself alone sounded, I’m afraid to say it, a little dreamy to me. I couldn’t imagine my son’s formative years without the added stress of our incessant bickering and now that we were separated I was getting a taste of the simple life and it was sheer heaven. Save for squashing bugs, fastening bracelets and rubbing sun block on my middle upper back, single parenthood was a much smoother ride. Having far less money to work with now and needing to return to work just served as a reminder that the compromises we’d pledged in marriage don’t end when the marriage does. So I told Celeste to go for it although I don’t think it made a difference. She had made up her mind with steadfast calm and steely resolve from almost the moment the child was conceived. Almost.

As we took turns reading our letters full of love and support for Celeste and the life-altering choice she’d made, I secretly siphoned off a bit for myself to fortify the life-altering choice I had so bravely made. We would both be on our own, now, to boldly go where millions of women have gone before us and we would do our best because that’s all we can do. There would be no pats on the back and few words of encouragement from our respective peanut galleries. It was up to us, now, to tell ourselves we were doing a good job. We were it.

I thought the letter writing was a good idea and wondered if it was too late to ask my friends to write letters for my first-grader to read about me, years from now, when he’s surly and hormonal and blames me for the divorce. I could sneak them into his smelly duffel bag as he’s stomping out the door to go live with his father. Or I could post them on his Facebook page. Or decoupage them to his nightstand.

Celeste’s nameless baby kicked in her mother’s itchy tummy as my guileless, young son kicked a soccer ball with his father somewhere in New Jersey. I rose to stand, squared my shoulders, and read my letter from a baby to her mother, when it occurred to me that in too many ways, I had written it to me. Which would account for my choking up towards the end. Either that or I was just tired.

Mom, You’re Beautiful When You’re Tired

I know you’ll look at me and think, jeeze, what do I do now?
I’ve changed your diaper, tried to wipe your tears and made a solemn vow
That if indeed you do stop crying, I’ll do anything you want
I’ll feed you all day, rock you and sway while remaining nonchalant
As passers-by and women (not shy) who will stop you on the street
Following questions with suggestions, “How’d you and your husband meet?”
And when you nod and smile demurely, thoughts of strangling with wire
Keep in mind I love you so and think you’re beautiful when you’re tired.

There may be nights that I’m not sleepy and you’re teetering on collapse
Put me to bed, earplug your head, I’ll fall asleep and then perhaps
I’ll learn to trust you as you’ll trust me to still love you in the morn
Because forgiveness, pure forgiveness beats a path to hearts well worn
So I will wear your silly outfits, I’ll roll over on command
I’ll learn to talk; I’ll not stop walking toward you, craving for your hand
You’ll guide me gently, bruised and bloody, let me slobber with desire
I’ll look a wreck but what the heck, you’re beautiful when you’re tired.
Yes, beautiful when you’re tired.

I may not thank you right away for letting me try then trip and fall
I will grow bolder as I’m older—I’m your daughter after all—
I’ll push the envelope quite often, challenge you to make me think
Of ways to get my way all day but deep inside I may be sinking
Wanting boundaries and your guidance, yearning for the tantrum’s end
So discipline me, time-outs give me— you’re my mother not my friend
And if you’re wondering if I love you bet I do with heart afire
You are my sun, my moon, my stars and you’re beautiful when you’re tired
You’re so beautiful when you’re tired
You’re amazing, you’re incredible, and you’re beautiful when you’re tired.