Raw and Brutal and Honest

On Wednesday, Bonehead and I decided the best thing we can do at this time for our family is for us to separate. Although divorce is not definite, it is a very high probability at this point in time. It will take nothing short of a small miracle for us to be able to fix the fissure in our marriage.

Without going in to too much detail, I will say that the decision was mutual, and state for the record there has been no infidelity on either part. I will not now, nor in the future, bad mouth the father of my children online or in front of my boys, he is a good man and a great father.

Judging from the obvious lack of sponsorship and ads in my sidebar, it should be apparent that I pretty much blog for me, and that I write simply because that is what I enjoy doing. I debated whether or not to blog about these recent changes in my life, and the structure of our family, and decided that honesty is best. I am not the type of person who can pretend to be something I clearly am not. Life has thrown me a massive curve ball and I desperately need this outlet. Things in my life are changing in a major way.

I am trying my best to continue to see things in a positive light, to look for the humor in each day and keep a positive outlook on life. But I'm finding that I just need to take each day as it comes, deal with what is before me, and be thankful at the end that I made it through. Logic tells me that things will get better, there will be an end to the anguish and heart ache, but my heart screams the opposite. It will be a journey, I will get there, and along the way, I will share what I can in as graceful a way as possible.

Because after all, although I am mourning the imminent loss of more than 15 years of marriage and 20 years of friendship, I have two absolutely beautiful boys to think of.

Discovering a Different Perspective

The Fairy Tale.

Cinderella and her Prince.

Butterflies, flushing newness, and happily ever after.

I can't truly speak for all American girls, but I can say that I grew up with a horribly misrepresented notion of happily ever after and the fairy tale. The handsome prince who was perfect and flawless. The certainty of being swept off my feet and worshiped and treasured surely meant a lifetime crammed full of sweet nothings and blushing cheeks and intestinal flip-flops, right?

The bookworm that I was as a young girl ran into book after book about the beautiful girl and the prince (or cowboy or dark and mysterious rogue rebel as I grew older) who supplied her life with the promise of happiness and flowers and suave romance and heart palpitating lust every moment of every day for eternity and forever. To my 20th century American girl mind, that was the definition of happily ever after.

I never once read a book about the day Cinderella woke up and realized she would spend the rest of her life eternally retrieving Princely's skivvies from the floor next to the empty laundry hamper. I never read any of her rants about how at least the ugly step-sisters left their clothing inside the hamper and left the stinking toilet seat down and they for freaking sure never ever supplied her bed with so many pillows she dreamt about being choked by marshmallows.

Nor did I encounter a book about how to continue loving your prince through bouts of extreme anger and frustration and tears and hurt (aka P.M.S.) and how to come to terms with the realization that life and love and marriage isn't the idealistic fairy tale I once thought it was.

Now that I'm older and I've experienced a great deal of marriage and love I realize that while fairy tales do exist, it is my concept of both the fairy tale and happily ever after that was grossly askew. Here, I'll explain.



This is a photo of one of my most beloved, highly prized possessions.

It's a poem written for me by my very own Bonehead while he was out at sea for the first time after becoming my husband. It is about both him and (a highly romanticized concept of) me. I'd share the story of the inner romance but some things in a marriage must always remain sacred. What I will say is that upon his return after our first prolonged separation as husband and wife he presented me with this poem.

A few years later he secretly commissioned my high school best friend and maid of honor to turn the poem into a beautiful one of a kind piece of art. For the longest time I kept it tucked away safely in a closet so no harm could come to it. Occasionally I would take a peek, run my fingers lovingly over it and allow the words to once again fill my heart with love.

One day Bonehead took it from it's safe place without my knowledge, grabbed my toddling Smoochie, and the two of them had it professionally framed for me. Almost 10 years into our marriage I walked into our bedroom and found it waiting for me on my pillow.

I know now that happily ever after is different for each person. For me, it is the scattering of joyful moments that tie together the mundane. My fairy tale is knowing the continuing love of a man and being able to share the ins and outs (and yes, the frustration and anger too) of every day life with him. My happily ever after lies with this poem and many other unexpected moments like these that fill my heart with joy.

On Marriage and Devotion

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I sat there trying to wrap my brain around what I'd just read, on a blog I've been following for quite some time, wanting more than ever to leave a comment. Usually if she's written something controversial and thought provoking I can think it over and then comment. Only this time, I discovered she'd turned the comments off, and I would not be able to do so. Ohohohoh I had some things I wanted to say in response to her post, but couldn't.

Truth is, I enjoy reading this blog. Sandi @ Lucky Thirteen and Counting has a very large family, and several members have special needs. The love that must be in her heart combined with the work that must go into taking such good care of this family has to be at astounding levels. And anyone with a family that large has to lead a life at least 10 times more interesting than mine, just with the extra opportunity for laughter and commotion alone.

All the same, I think I was more frustrated at not being allowed to comment than I was at what I read on the blog. And then I realized that I have a blog. I have a voice. Not that I've networked and grown my blog to ginormous levels, but even if it is a small one, it is still a voice, a place for me to- well- scratch my neurotic spot.

I don't usually share my opinions on things with people other than immediate family because for the most part I hate having opinions forced upon me. In fact, if you chose to stop reading now, I would totally get it. But I've been thinking hard about this all morning, and I have an itch that I can't ignore. Yep, I'm scratching.

What I took away from what I read is that no matter how happy I think my marriage is, my husband could cheat on me. And that I would be absolutely blind and lying to myself if I didn't see that possibility. And that no matter how much I trust my husband, there might be a woman out there who decides she has to have him and would stop at nothing to seduce him.

There was a time a few years into my marriage when those kind of thoughts ruled my brain. Every time he was away from me for more than 20 minutes, my brain would go there. Would he put himself in that position? What if he did? What is going on that I don't know about? Is he going to? Would he if he had the opportunity?

I spent a great deal of time with my stomach in knots. The knots in my stomach contained anger, and distrust, and they grew until I didn't recognize the person I had become. I was distrustful, needy, and just generally unhappy with my life and beyond a shadow of a doubt I was miserable.

This being the time before we had children, I seriously considered divorce over and over and over. After all, if I couldn't trust him, did it matter that I loved him with all of my heart if I was going to be miserable and carry an iron cannonball around in my stomach anyway?

And then our Smoochie arrived and touched our hearts beyond anything either of us could have imagined. For the first time, I think we saw our marriage for what it was and decided that a little intervention was needed in order to give Smooch the life and love he deserved. We went to counseling. Yep, the dreaded marriage counselor. For a long time, actually. And I went to see her on an individual basis, too, because I had a lot of other baggage to deal with and kick to the curb. Did the counseling help? Sure. After all, who wouldn't benefit from an outsider's constructive view on the relationship- especially if both parties are equally open to change.

But the real reason I am still with my husband is because I had an epiphany. Could Bonehead cheat on me? Absolutely, with 100% certainty it was a possibility. I couldn't then, nor can I now, guarantee that he will not ever err and cheat. Heck, I am human myself, and who's to say that 3, 5, 10 years from now I won't mess up myself? It's like being in an airplane and trusting your life to the pilot. If you're going to fly, you're going to have to give up a little control, otherwise you will be stuck on the ground and probably miss out on opportunity after opportunity in your life.

I could continue to live with that panic-can't-breathe feeling every time he leaves my presence, or I could put a little faith in him and simply trust that he wouldn't behave inappropriately. For me, it came down to the whole glass half empty/ half full scenario. I made a conscious decision to look at my marriage as a glass half full. I nurture it, trust it to still be half full in the future, and do my best not to drop it or spill it. And if some day I wake to find out someone guzzled the last half and left me with an empty glass, then I will deal with that. But I refuse to nurture hate and mistrust in my marriage (and heart) on the off chance that someone might be that greedy.

Its been several years since I adopted this view point. And in all honesty, I would be lying if I said that every once in a while one of those old thoughts didn't sneak into my brain. But then I remind myself that life's too short to allow those kind of thoughts to once again take root in my head, and I deal with it and kick it to the curb.

So could he cheat? Oh, absolutely. When it comes right down to it, I have absolutely no control over whether he does or not. What I can control is me, and I refuse to waste my limited number of days worrying over the 'what could be's' and instead choose to live in the love and devotion that is my 'here and now'.

*As I was finishing up this post, by chance this song popped up on my shuffle. The irony is that it pretty much says what I was trying to say, anyway. Here's the lyrics, and the Youtube link, if you care to hear.

I Believe- Cowboy Mouth

Whatcha gonna do with the restlessness inside you worried mind
How you think you're ever gonna get ahead when you feel so far behind
Step inside this endless moment for a subtle touch of grace
I've always found my strength inside the act of faith

I believe in the spirit of Rock N Roll
In the eternal stregth of the immortal soul
Cause sometimes everybody's gotta let it go
I believe in the power of love

I believe in the sounds of Sam and Dave
That little children should occasionally misbahave
That all that you get is all that you gave
I believe in the power of love

Little boy staring out a windowsill to a world that doesn't care
Everybody 'round is so much bigger that they don't even know he's there
But one day he's going to grow to be a man and maybe then they'll see
He'll provide the hope and care for the family

I believe in the chance of love at fist site
That your life doesn't always have to be a fight
And if you do it at all you ought to do it right
I believe in the power of love

I believe that sometimes you got to take a stand
That you're holding my heart when you're holding my hand
Cause everything is eventually in gods hands

I have got to take the best of me and keep that heart alive
Why'd i ever want to shut that down and kill my soul?

I believe that sometimes you've got to take a chance
That you can't lve your life just listening to can't's
Casue the thrill of the ball's part of the thrill of the dance
I believe in the power of love

I believe that we never really are alone
'Cause there's so much more than anything we've known
New Orleans is always gonna be my home
I believe in the power of love

I believe in the spirit of Rock N Roll
In the eternal stregth of the immortal soul
Cause sometimes everybody's gotta let it go
I believe in the power of love

The Real Happily Ever After

I do believe I fell in love with fairy tales at a young age. For me, the allure wasn’t so much the prince charming (although he did play a role), but the happily ever after. I’m not sure I even knew what that meant, really, “happily ever after”, but I had my own idea. Which, too, was….um…actually kind of vague. I knew the beautiful princess would feel butterflies in her tummy, and that there would be happiness every second- the giddy kind that makes you want to giggle. Happily ever after was honeymoon bliss (which at 5, I likened to Halloween) every day for the rest of your life.

I met my prince at 15. How many people are lucky enough to stumble upon their prince charming at such a young age? Immediately I befriended the prince, and soon we were inseparable, and he was my best friend. He knew all my deepest darkest secrets, and I knew I could trust him with my life. He was smart, funny, had a poet’s soul and a rebel’s heart all rolled into one. So when I was 19 (and he 21) and he proposed, I jumped at the chance to marry my sweet, handsome, romantic prince charming.

But earlier this week I was feeling pretty duped. Happily ever after doesn’t leave the toilet seat up. Happily ever after doesn’t give you a 6 year old son with the urinating splatter pattern of a water balloon. And as I traveled about the house trying to make it at least presentably clean (feel free to insert a mental picture of a chubby hamster on a skinny wheel here) I was all kinds of grumpy. Seriously, the middle of the floor (in any room, pick a room) has a magnet for shoes that BELONG BY THE DOOR. How hard is it to throw something away when you walk past the trash can on your way to put it on the counter? My effort around here is futile, I tell you.

By Tuesday night, I was feeling much the same. I’d been totally duped with the whole happily ever after thing. How the hell did Snow White clean that house so cheerfully? It wasn’t even hers!

Hubby and I sat in our living room with our dueling laptops watching TV and Google chatting. Let me tell you, Google chat has been a lifesaver now that our son can actually spell and read. Talk about going out to dinner out loud, and the first time you mention Applebee’s and he’s jumping up and down cheering and the next thing you know you have no other choices. We can talk about all kinds of things while separated by a matter of feet. We can share stories or pictures of topics that are interesting that we stumble on. (Yes, we’re nerdy like that) The ironic thing is we still do it, even after the kiddos are in bed.

So when the link came over through Google chat, I thought it was just another funny lolcat that I hadn’t seen yet. I clicked on it, and I saw what happily ever after really was.

He had sent me a Google map. But it wasn’t JUST a map. It was a map of us. It started with a pinpoint at his parent’s house, for his front yard was the place where we met. It had most of our life laid out for me to look at, complete with an explanation of each dot. Our first apartment. The townhome we loved the best. The apartment we lived in (that I picked out all by myself because we were separated by the navy and half the U.S. at the time) that had train tracks behind it and when a train went by, the whole place shook like there was a 5.9 bringing the place down. The location of the birth place of both our sons. There it was, my whole life with Bonehead, all mapped out. I was looking at my happily ever after right before my eyes, which were, at that time, filled with tears.

Someone should write a book on the “real happily ever after.” The one that actually exists-complete with toilet seats and trippy shoes. Because although happily ever after isn’t Halloween every day, and although it is work and drudgery at times, happily ever after does exist. The moment you are looking at it, it might just be one dot on the map, but after a little while it becomes the history of you, me, and us. And as long as we continue to be lovers, best friends, and sidekicks, it continues to be happily ever after.

Chain Grease and Green Beans

Earlier this afternoon, I watched Bonehead make about 4 trips to our basement with bike stuff in his hands. I sat in my chair, holding our napping son in his preferred horizontal position, and watched. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his plans, but I know him. I know when something is brewing in his scheamy little mind, and after being married so long, I recognized the feisty tunnel-visioned determination with which things were being carted downstairs. Something was definitely up.

Sure enough, after I laid Critter down and began dinner preparations, Smoochie came upstairs and said “Mom, Dad needs you downstairs.” What on earth was going on down there? I took the bait and down I went.

I got downstairs and asked Bonehead what it was that he wanted me to do. Apparently, by the look he gave me, even he was doubtful I was actually going to follow through and help him out with his request.

“I need you to crawl under the tool bench and hold this screwdriver on the back side of this round spinny thingy here.” Yes, he used a technical term, but I have never claimed to have a photographic memory when it comes to mechanical stuff. Now, every word Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson muttered on the talk show I watched last night I can regurgitate verbatim. But Bike terms, no.

I looked at him like he just sprouted fangs and told me he “Vanted to Suck my Blooooood.” Our basement is not finished. There are scary creepy crawly things down there. There are cracks and crevices I’m afraid to LOOK in let alone place precious limbs in. So I did the only thing I could do. I looked at him and with all of the love in my heart said, “No. Huh-uh. Not gonna happen.”

At that point he gave me option #2. “You can stay right here and torque this tool thingy if you want and I will crawl under there and keep the round spinny thingy from spinning.” (Again, my interpretation of what actually came out of his mouth)

I chose to torque the tool. Which didn’t budge, of course. So after trying for a few minutes and getting looks from Bonehead which I interpreted as “Oh for crying out loud, crawl under the freeking tool bench so I can hurry up and get on with my diabolical plan already!”, I finally caved.

I crawled under the bench that had been free to gather cobwebs and all sorts of creepy crawlies since the dawn of time and held the screwdriver just where he wanted it so he could torque. I snuck a look at my hands which just mere moments ago were preparing green beans for dinner, and they were covered with chain grease. I sat on our cold concrete basement floor and looked at him square in the eye across the bike frame hung up on the hooks and told him, “The things I do for love.”

It turned out that the tool he had was the wrong one, so he and Smooch had to make a quick trip to our local bike shop for the proper one. I traipsed my way back upstairs to wash my hands and continue with the beans; only to discover that the beans I bought two days ago fresh looked pretty sketchy tonight.

So I asked him if he could stop and get me new beans on his way back home. Now, I know how geared up he gets when it comes to bikes, bike things, bike rides and bike accessories. So when he rolled his eyes and said, “I’ll stop for you”, I knew it was the same as saying “The things I do for love.”

We’ve been married for 14 years. I learned a long time ago that fairy tales and ultimate romance happen not so much. It’s all about the chain grease and green beans.

What IS that smell?

I was 19 years old when Bonehead and I got married. I have a feeling at the time there were many bets on the table-

I give it two years.

I give it 5.

I bet she’s pregnant.

I give it 6 months.

We’ve somehow managed to defy all of the marrying young odds and lasted for a while, and after about 10 months of marriage opinions on the baby topic changed as well. I’m sure bets were lost. In retrospect I wouldn’t recommend my oldest niece marry at 19. But all the same, I wouldn’t change a day of the last 14 years.

Bonehead and I married on a Sunday afternoon in front of the picture window in his parents’ house. We spent the night in a local hotel and promptly got up the next morning and drove to Dubuque, Iowa so I could take my final exams for the semester. Our plan was to get me through finals week, and then spend a couple of days at home packing and putting things in order before driving cross country together to start our life across the sound from Seattle. At the time, he was in the navy and that is where he was stationed.

The drive from the greater Chicagoland area to Dubuque was pretty uneventful, but we did get at least one toll free due to the “just married” décor theme of our Ford Tempo.
Finals week went pretty well too- all things considered. Looking back now, the week was a giant blur of testing, eating out with Bonehead due to the fact that I was super tired of cafeteria food by that time, spending time with our mutual friends, and packing up my room full of belongings.

Towards the end of the week strange things began to happen in my car. Bonehead and I would be on our way somewhere and one of us would notice the hint of an unpleasant aroma.

Bonehead- “Do you smell that?”

Me- “Smell what? I don’t smell anything.”

Bonehead- “It’s gone now, I don’t smell it anymore.”

A day or so later we’d replay the scene but with opposite rolls.

Me- “I smell something weird.”

Bonehead- “In the car, or outside?”

Me- “I can’t……quite…..(sniff sniff)… tell……never mind it’s gone now.”

And then on the way back home at the end of the week, the real trouble began.

Bonehead- “Oh man- WHAT IS THAT SMELL?”

Me- “I don’t know but (pulling my shirt up over my nose) it’s killing me.”

Bonehead- “I think it’s coming from our back seat.”

Me- “Do you see anything back there? I’d check but I’m a little busy driving.”

Bonehead- “No, I don’t see anything. And now it’s gone again.”

A while later the mysterious odor reappeared. This time Bonehead asked me to pull over. Neither of us could stand the stench that seemed to be permeating the car- even with both windows rolled fully down. I found a parking lot to pull into and stopped the car.

That Bonehead, he’s so brave. He got out and dove into my back seat head first looking for the location of the smell. After a moment or two of digging he came up for air with a triumphant, “Ah-ha! I found the culprit!!”

Our first night in Dubuque we had gone out for Chinese. We got our leftovers wrapped to go, put them on the back floorboard of our car, and never gave them another thought. After being buried by the beginnings of packing up my dorm room and a week of sitting in a warm car they had taken on their very own identity of the odiferous sort.

We left that smell in a dumpster on the side of the road somewhere between Dubuque and Chicagoland. And other than to laugh and giggle about it every couple of years along the path of our marriage, we never gave it another thought.