The Bathroom Floor Thing

November 9, 2009

Discussions to return home have begun in earnest. Salary negotiations, daydreaming, sobbing on the bathroom floor, etc.

Initially, I resisted. Afterall, I’ve put so much mental energy into making this work — being kinder to her mother, better at my job, interested in the middle-aged lesbians around me. I bought a fucking car, for chrissake. (I hate cars). I had decided that we would stay here until whatever progeny was school-aged and then we could move back or away or wherever. I drove through neighborhoods looking at houses, I listened when people talked about local politics. I was not going to let Wifebian jerk me around. She made this bed, invited me to lie in it, and now it was time to say goodnight.

But today, at Meeting, all that went through my head were visions of home. I realized that I was resisting a move because I am trying to grasp at some semblance of control, that I just want to be somewhere, anywhere for the long haul. But that this whole, small nightmare could be over in a few weeks, if I just said yes. I started to daydream about how we could live in this neighborhood, apply for that job, how I would never take the museums, the buses, the people for granted again.

In the car with Wifebian, she was gentle with herself, saying that if moving into her mother’s basement was how she needed to learn about whats important to her — professionally, personally — as a teacher, a wife and a soon-to-be mother, then so be it. I told her I was willing to leave.

What it boils down to is that Wifebian’s work environment has become kind of hostile since she wrote that incident report to the board. Her grade level team is pretty low-functioning and the safety and sanity of everyone involved is compromised daily. She applied to the local school system, but no one has called back. We have a million and one options — namely, that she could find a different job down here. But the job back home would be a promotion in a high functioning organization with amazing coworkers that she knows and loves. And I guess that’s hard to pass up.

We’ve also been hurt in real ways by her parents that dont bode well for long-term happiness whether we live in their basement or not. Her dad yells, her mom says — never to me, of course — that I won’t be a good mother, that I don’t know what a real family is like. I try to imagine the looks on their faces when I tell them I’m pregnant and it makes me vomit a little in my mouth. Not to mention, Wifebian’s little sister, who got married this year, too, is pregnant. Wifebian’s parents treated our weddings differently, and there is no reason to believe that they wont treat our pregnancies, births and babies differently, too. It was one thing to live six hours away and realize that our wedding receptions were being treated differently, but it will be another thing to live it from across town.

And then, tonight, middle sil made a pot roast and invited everyone over. I was so excited all weekend for some family time. But, of course, it didnt live up to expectations. We all blew in, made fun of one another or ignored one another (depending on some subtle set of alliances) shoveled food into our faces while watching football and went home. I knocked back four beers in an hour. Maybe an hour and a half. Hence the whole bathroom floor thing.

So that’s where we are at. No cutesy cliff-hangers, just the difficult work of two wives trying to find a place that feels like home and people who will treat us like family.


2 Responses to “The Bathroom Floor Thing”

  1. Me said

    The bathroom floor. That’s rough. Thinking of you guys….

  2. EMQ said

    I love you guys. And I’m proud of you for being honest to yourself what you want and not just you think you should want. You’re going to be amazing moms.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: