Tethered
Two things.
First Thing: my parents can’t do anything right.
Three weeks before that photo was taken they announced they were calling it quits after thirty-some odd years of perfect marital bliss. They were throwing in the towel, throwing down the gauntlet, and throwing it all away. Which was apparently easier than throwing each other through the living room window. And what impeccable timing. Three weeks before that photo. Three weeks before the day Cute Redhead and I would vow I Perfectly Promise Forever And Always.
But my parents, God love them to high heaven, can’t do anything right. And Can’t Do Anything Right looked like this:
“Oh yeah!? Well [not publishable] [not publishable] and you and your God-forsaken [so. not. publishable.] can just [Lord, the language that woman can employ]!!”
“Oh and you think I haven’t suffered in this freak circus side-show you call a relationship?! Ha! I’m outta here!”
*slam!
“Fine! I’m outta here too you rat-bastard waste of gravity! My mom was right about you!”
*slam!
And then they were outta there. They got in separate cars and got outta there. They screamed their piece, slammed their doors, floored it, and got! outta! there! taking their Outta Here in separate directions. Dad went one way and mom went the other. And if I know that man, he pursed his lips, hooded his eyes and brooded in a skilled silence and drove and brooded and drove and brood brood brood.
Mom, on other hand, if I know that woman (and I do) cussed a blue streak from here to deepest, darkest, Africa which, if written down would sear through paper, melt the table under it and burn a whole in the floor. The woman is nothing if not gifted in verbal metaphor. More, she’s Catholic. More than that, she’s a professional Catholic. Which means that if she has decided you aren’t right with God, The Holy Ghost, The Mother of God, all the angels and saints, their cousins on both sides, the old ladies who clean the pews with Murphy’s Oil Soap, and every Pope straight back to Peter (except the ones that annoy her)…you are flat going to Hell and she gets to throw the switch. It’s in her contract. Sorry.
That’s what was going on in her car while he brooded in his. Brood. Cuss. Brood. Cuss. BroodCussBroodCussBroodBroodBroodCussCussCuss.
And then dad’s cell phone rang.
“Where are you?”
“Just driving. Where are you?”
“Just driving.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Me too. Wanna meet me at The Little Bar? They have that meatloaf thing tonight I think.”
*thinks “Hm. That actually sounds good. Okay I’ll see you there.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there.”
“Oh and I hate you.”
“I hate you too. I’ll order your drink for you.”
And that’s how well and how far my parents got with divorce. Three weeks later, at our wedding, they were there holding it together. And eighteen years later into ours, and a billion and a half into theirs…they’re still holding it together. They’re still dancing. Slower. But they’re dancing.
And I am eternally grateful they can’t do anything right. That’s the first thing.
Second Thing: my wife and I can’t do anything right.
When I look at that photo I see that I remember that I didn’t know I didn’t know what was coming. I remember thinking I heard every word at premarital counseling and understood everything I’d read about the adventure, the horrors, the surgery the waltz through marriage.
But it takes years of undoing and doing it right, falling uphill, and tearing through layer after layer of False Self to come to see that you saw nothing then. And if you’re honest, sort of see even less now. I’m of the opinion lately that the failing eyesight of those of us who have waltzed past 40 can mean more than just laugh lines and gray hair at the temples. It can also mean that we’ve matured enough to live just as well (if not better) no longer needing to see perfectly. And that makes me smile because admitting you can’t see as clearly as you used to is counter-intuitive to a culture intoxicated with staying young.
In our house things are reversed. Cute Redhead does more of the heavy-lifting as provider than I do. I play the role of traditional mom more than she might. It’s just how our dance has played itself out. For the most part, we’re good with it. It can be an odd melody and a strange tune, but it’s our music and after the fog of diapers and Up All Nights lifted, we realized we’d learned the steps and it just fit.
But.
Sometimes neither of us like our roles, chosen or bestowed.
About a week ago I moved through a day telling nobody about how inadequate I felt as husband and father and a provider. Won’t bore you with How or Why. It’s not important and it’s probably nothing you can’t imagine all by yourself. But it was a hard couple of days and I kept it to myself. I got them up, made their breakfasts, packed their lunches, kissed her goodbye as she left on a business trip, dropped them off, and navigated the rest of the day until the chaos leveled itself again after school let out.
And the song played on. And I danced.
When Cute Redhead came home the next day there was a hand-off because I had a late meeting leaving her with what had become my typical effort: dinner. I don’t recall what she made. I do, however, recall that the kids and she let fly with no shortage of jokes about who does dinner better? Mom or dad? (Dad.)
And it was a good night. Redhead and I shared a bottle of wine, homework got fought over, Alpha Male got put in his place no less than three times for God-Knows-What-This-Time, the dinner was enjoyed for a grand total of six and a half minutes at the table and general good humor lasted right through to bed time.
At which time, I, spent, lay on my side in the bed glad that we’ve a warm roof over our heads. In spite of how inadequate I often feel at holding it up. After which, Cute Redhead, spent, laid down next to me and said, “…I feel like such a non-traditional mother. I can’t do anything right.” The nine-to-five and the rat race and the racing home and microwaving supper didn’t help.
“You’re not a traditional mother. But I’m not a traditional father either. And I can’t do anything right.”
Then we turned out the light and turned the page on another day of Normal Around Here. Which seemed right.
I fell asleep thinking about how I can’t do anything right. I thought about how my parents couldn’t either. I thought about the ways Cute Redhead and I still don’t understand each other. I thought about how, for “better or worse, I am tethered to you.” I thought about marriage and fighting and loving and getting it right and all the Getting It Oh So Wrong.
I thought about dancing. I thought about the many kinds of dances: the ones that require a passionate embrace to bring the music out of the song. The ones where man and the woman fly apart, past fingertips, barely holding on, having nothing more than a wild spinning of the room to throw them back together. I thought of the fast ones, the slow ones, and the ones you swear you’re never going to get to dance again. Until one day when you hear the song in the frozen food aisle, on speakers giving off more static than tune, and in your heart you’re dancing all over again.
I thought about how important it is to keep dancing. To keep looking. And to keep it together.
Chorded in love or tethered in the “tangle that’s bruising us blue…it’s a beautiful knot that we just can’t undo.”
.
It’s just beautiful. In your unique style (that means: thank God, I can understand the whole entire thing again.)
But it is beautiful and heartfelt indeed.
‘Just can’t do it right’ Man If I had a penny for everytime have thought those selfsame thoughts. But yes we carry on and find that better day.
Of course the veteran blog is awesome, but this hit home way more.
As part of a couple astonished to see how conventional (perhaps even outdated) our roles have become, those thoughts of inadequacy are equally, or, perhaps because it is what was traditionally expected, more strongly felt.