Your husband wants to be seen, too.

The kids were playing, their happy voices echoing off walls bathed in sun on a spring afternoon.

I used their distraction as an opportunity to wander around our downstairs, picking up abandoned shoes and socks that dotted the floor before heading back to our bedroom,

I grumbled as I made a mental checklist of everything that needed doing, and that whatever efforts I put in would probably seem undone by the week’s end.

I made my way to our walk-in closet with an armload of clothes. The cream colored walls looked like amber in the afternoon sun, but I didn’t notice as I rammed an armload of sweaters into the bowels of my closet. 

I remembered how excited we were when we bought our house. My husband and I  went from sharing one normal sized closet to us each having our own, complete with a small dressing area and full length mirror. It certainly isn’t Sunset Boulevard grand, but it is several steps up from what we had grown accustomed to.

I pride myself on how my closet is barely full because darn the incessant belief that every woman only dreams of a giant closet for just their shoes.

My husband’s closet? His is brimming with stuff.

Everything from his military dress blues tucked in the very back recesses to guitar cases leaning against each other on the floor. Combat boots and rugged Doc Martins mingle on the top shelf. Business suits, ties and belts, hats and keepsakes. You name it, it’s probably in there. Pieces of his entire life.

I noted all the cellophane wrappers and green tags on the floor and growled out a sigh. I’d given him a small waste basket for all the paper shirt tags and wrapping his shirts come home with from the dry cleaners. Why doesn’t he ever seem to use it?

Lately, my husband has moved through each day almost like a specter. He’s there, but he isn’t really.

He’s been bogged down with life. We have a new home that needs cracks repaired, rooms refinished or painted, and a bathtub that likes to backup like clockwork once a month – always at 10 o’clock at night after we have sank down on the sofa after the kids are in bed, because of course it does.

He has kids who are still small and need endless attention. He just finished another semester for his master’s program. He works full-time each week.

And he sometimes wakes up early each day feeling defeated before his feet hit the floor.

Up until that day, I had been so frustrated with him. Why couldn’t he try to make the best out of his days the same way I have tried to?? It wasn’t like homeschooling small children and cleaning soggy food out of a kitchen sink strainer was the answer I eagerly filled in on all those high school career surveys.

This life isn’t always the best version I could have conjured up when I was looking at college brochures.

I didn’t think adulthood would be having the cup holders in my car full of sticky rocks and coins, and how my house would constantly feel more like a dumpster behind a Toys R Us with four walls than home.

I did not think it would be chocked full of grief and anxiety while trying to be a responsible parent. I didn’t think being a grownup would be so astoundingly hard.

I also never considered the isolation and anonymity of parenting and marriage. How you spend your days wanting to build the perfect home, but then those four walls can surreptitiously swallow your identity from having to work so hard to safeguard everything.

They can even hide you from your spouse.

“This is so far from what we pictured most days” we both silently think as we convince ourselves the other one just wouldn’t understand how we feel.

Your husband wants to be seen, too

I snatched up each clear wrapper on the floor, wrapping them around my forearm as I began to hunt furiously for the black plastic waste basket I’d given him to contain his mess. I noticed one side of his closet was shut, and yanked on the handle. The bi-fold door sounded like an old book spine as it creaked open and I ran my eyes down the long line of hanging dress shirts, and the smell of leather and cotton filtered out.

I found it. 

The waste basket. Full to the absolute brim with paper tags. Then I noticed the rest of the tags. They looked almost like snow on top of his leather bag that lay on the floor. There were tags everywhere.

I slowly sank to my knees.

I reached in and picked up a handful of those tags, passed them through my fingertips like I was skimming them delicately across the surface of water. I let them fall, heard them rustle to the floor. And I started to weep.

Here was his waste basket. Full. So full there was simply no more room. I looked up at his closet and saw the stark division between him and “him.” On one side are dress shirts and suit jackets. A tie rack divides the closet, and on the other side? Polo shirts, the suit he got married in and his military dress blues. Button down shirts he has owned since before we were even dating, and the uniforms he wore every day when he was in the service.

I saw the guitar cases that haven’t been touched in months. His Doc Martin boots he doesn’t get to wear often on casual days out because he’s hardly out of the house. A tote full of keepsakes and letters, probably from me when he was deployed to the middle east.

I saw clearly his life, divided into two quadrants. The parts of him that are hardly ever touched because he lives the rest of his life for us. And the weight of just how much he forgoes for himself out of duty to his family. I saw him again fully for just a moment. The square-cut jawed man I married, tan and impossibly youthful, as he told me of all he wanted to do with his life, and I decided to myself what is life if not an adventure. And what is an adventure without your best friend? I saw him contrasted to the person he is now, beholden to responsibility, willing to set so much aside for the people he loves.

I know that we mothers struggle with finding ourselves again after children arrive and wreck shop. The ocean we are in is so staggeringly beautiful that we don’t even realize it sometimes when we are drowning.

We think nobody could ever feel as lonely as we do.

I think we are wrong, ladies.

The closet was bathed in golden sunlight. I saw it then, as I cried and dust motes hung in the air and our ceiling fan spun silently and cars raced past. Time stopped for just a moment as God let the scales fall from my eyes.

How often have I prayed for and craved deeper intimacy with my husband. I thought that meant heartfelt conversations at 1 a.m. and love notes and sonnets. Instead, it looked like a river of paper tags on a closet floor and my eyes bursting open when I finally saw where my husband is.

I didn’t realize as I hunted down that trash can I was actually hunting for him and for some truth, no matter how imperceptible, about where he is. Where he’s gone. About what is laying hard on his heart.

It was right there, behind two bi-fold doors, buried on his closet floor. The neglect that defines his life right now. Both my own and his. I had neglected to see the divine partnership my husband and I share. And how much he has neglected himself for the sake of his family.

He was doing his best, each morning. Each morning after sitting at the table with a plate of breakfast after a quick shower. Tossing tags into his closet as he tightened his tie, threw on his suit jacket and left his family for one more day at the haste of the daily grind.

I emptied his trash can. I slipped it back into his closet and closed those doors. Not before I poured out a prayer to God from our closet floor.

Women. That moment changed me. It affirmed to me what I should have known a long time ago. Me and my husband? We are so very much in this together. I am not alone. 

And he shouldn’t be either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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How You Will Actually Spend Your Summer “Vacation”

This Heart...

Have you felt it yet?… The sweat? Namely, the boob sweat?

That means summer is here, mommas! Rejoice! Salve, Maria?! Don’t the longer days sound just great??

Or how about blue crabs covered in Old Bay washed down with a cold beer? Or American flags flying everywhere in your sleepy small town? And you can’t forget late nights spent chasing fireflies in bare feet. At least, those are my go to summertime fantasies here in Maryland.

Now, we take a moment of silence to reflect on how we made it, moms. Or at least, how we’ve almost made it. There are probably still teacher gifts to buy, more class parties to make it through that are always smack dab in the middle of the day, and did you get tricked into chaperoning half a dozen field trips this spring??

Jerry poolThe month of May is a catastrophic marathon that tests the…

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Hormones are the worst.

It is three p.m. on a Friday afternoon and I can barely function. 

I’ve drank all the coffee. I’ve drank water. I’ve eaten. I slept last night. 

And it is still all I can do to stay awake. 

It’s PMS week. 

If you’re like me, and any part of your seventh grade health class stuck with you when you weren’t doodling in your Five Star binder, you probably used to think that PMS week meant your period. No. No, it does not. 

This is the meltdown prior to starting your period. 

We need a myth busters episode on this, apparently. Because my husband stared at me with a face full of perplexity when I broke this fact down for him, right before he scurried off to find shelter from my tirade.

I was very fortunate when I was younger. I barely noticed when I would ovulate. I might have felt a twinge. I may have eaten more chocolate unbeknownst to myself. But mostly? I was fine. 

It was when Aunt Flo showed up that my life came apart at the seams. 

Two day long headache? Check

Skin with more craters and marks than the surface of the moon? Oh, yea. 

Moody? In dire need of a cheeseburger or Dr. Pepper? Wanting to die during gym class? Scratch the eyes out of the fifteen year old girl next to me who always raised her hand in history class? Wanting to shave my head, paint my nails black and otherwise assume whatever rebellious appearance I could just to piss my mother off?

Oh, you bet. 

Now that I am older, like, twice as old, and I haven’t seen the inside of a high school auditorium or punched a time card at a college-age-part-time-job, I have discovered another kind of fresh hell that awaits me each month. 

Ovulation week. 

It happened sometime around my third child. 

I noticed that in the middle of the month, my emotions would spiral out of control. I would spend about five days barely making it off the sofa or through until dinner time. I also wanted to wrestle a puma with my bare hands but I was really worried about whether or not I should get bangs. Am I just sad or am I really crying at this Hootie and the Blowfish song on the radio?

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I realized that, for some reason after bearing three healthy children, my uterus wanted to make herself known. Even more than she already was. She decided, much like the Paris Hilton she is, five days of attention a month just wasn’t going to cut it. This is the age of 24/7 social media. Non-stop attention whoring is the ticket. The sky is the limit.

No, she decided that she would evolve into a Kim Kardashian drama queen of epic proportions. She now needed to occupy nearly two weeks of my life a month. 

The result?

The result is I cannot even anymore, people. 

 

Seriously, uterus, what do I need to do to show you that I take you seriously?? I already know what you can do. I know how powerful you are. I get it. Why do you need to strong arm my month even more?? 

I await my arrival from Aunt Flo each month just so I can have some relief. 

It’s like watching King Joffrey die on Game of Thrones, but now Cersei is on the throne and is this really any better or is it in fact much, much worse?

I don’t know what I did in my short life to make the universe decided to torment me. I just want to be loved. I just want a soft pretzel and a nap, but also I want Bob Ross to tell me that it’s going to be okay. 

In the words of my wise sister in law, women experiencing this should be allowed to lay around in red tents while someone else tends to all that they would otherwise need in life. 

I just need, like, two weeks off a month, people. 

Is that really so much to ask?