I always wanted to be a trophy wife.
I don’t mean trophy as in the 3rd or 4th, 30 years younger, hydrogen peroxide blonde. (Not that there is anything wrong with any of those things.) I mean trophy as in stay at home, keep a perfect house, keep a perfect body, always have the energy for fabulous sex, and an incredible entertainer as well.
You know, kind of a J-Lo/Martha Stewart mix.
Oh, and I would be the most supportive, interesting wife who would know exactly how to listen to his day, what to do in a pinch, and when to give advice.
I have NO idea where I came up with this image. Donna Reed? Maybe not, they didn’t even sleep in the same bed, so no fabulous sex there…
Anyway, here is my issue. I realized recently that I didn’t grow up in an environment that fostered anything of this sort. Not that I needed my mom to be J-Lo/Martha Stewart.
But lately, when I have been talking to my mom about big life decisions, she has said things such as, “Why must you talk to D about it? Do you really need his permission?” Um, to get pregnant? Probably. To staff a youth trip to Israel for a month? Would be beneficial to our relationship.
It is like she thinks I should live a totally separate life from my husband.
I have started to remember, in bits and pieces, my parents relationship. (Post-traumatic stress syndrome and tons of anti-depressants have helped to block it out). They didn’t think that communicating was important, and so that put the three kids in the middle a lot. I REFUSE to have that kind of relationship.
Sure, right now, D is still a product of a family that does TOO much together. I haven’t adjusted to the fact that he thinks we should grocery shop together, because I can get in and out of Safe way in 20 minutes, while he is still researching the different melting points of baker’s chocolate.
But I am willing to negotiate. Because I am going to make this work. Even if my parents couldn’t. Even if the statistics that I read all of the time tell me that we don’t stand more than a 1 in 3 chance.