The Whole Rotten Echilada

It was my son's first birthday, April 27, 1982. Looking out the window in the upstairs bathroom of the old farmhouse we rented,  I saw my husband riding his red John Deer tractor in he back forty acres of the farm. I couldn't help but smile. Life was good. When I turned to look in the mirror, I saw Happy. Finally, at thirty-six, I'd found Happy. (Me + man + baby + two step daughters = Happy.)

As I stood looking at my reflection, I said out loud, "On this day I am where I have always wanted to be. In love with my husband, my two step daughters, and I'm the mother of a beautiful baby boy." I looked back out the window and watched as the farmer (my farmer) readied the spring soil for next fall's harvest.  "How long will this happiness last?" I asked the mirror, hoping the answer was "forever." 

There's his story; there's mine and somewhere in the middle is the true story. That middle story would probably go something like this: They were ill suited for each other. There is no bad guy; there is no good girl. Both are responsible for the failure of their marriage.

I'm not sure what he thought because he didn't talk much. He knew what I thought because I talked too much. Talking through our problems was the only way I knew how to fix them. I wanted to talk all the time: What are the core issues? How can we fix this? Why are things getting worse instead of better? 

The marriage counselor we found at church said I had an unfair advantage over my husband because women are master orators, whereas men have a hard time finding words to express themselves. He also said the trouble with our relationship was me. Me. My husband was going through some difficult times and he was sad. It was my responsibility as his wife to encourage him, support him, coddle him. "Stand by your man." he said. "It's the Christian way."  Before I stood up abruptly and walked out of the room, ending the marriage counseling and the marriage, the counselor said that I had emasculated my husband, as in castration.

What? Wait! But...But... . 

I was willing to accept partial blame--no bad guy; no good girl, remember?--but no way was I going down for the whole rotten enchilada. No way. Nope. Ain't gonna happen. "You can see that your husband is sad, you know he's hurting. Yet you have expectations of him. Right now, he's incapable of anything but dealing with his sadness." 

I thought about the counselor's words: I castrated my husband. My imagination got ahold of that statement and went a little haywire with it. I'm frantically digging through my sewing kit. "WHERE ARE MY PINKING SHEARS," I yell. After dumping my sewing kit upside down, the shears fall out on the floor. They are rusty from when I had used them before to cut testicles off of the male hogs in the rain and mud. "Good," I say with an evil snicker. "They're dull. All the better to cut off my husband's testicles. It will take longer. There will be prolonged pain an suffering."

I hate to admit it, but for the longest time, I did believe the marriage counselor's truth: The failure of our marriage was all my fault, but over time and much introspection and with Hindsight by my side, I realize I should have used the turkey carver instead. Buzz...Buzz. Done. Quick and easy. Hungry anyone?