We all get into routines based on life phases. Having a child means having an immediate routine impressed upon your life, with the feeding times, the naps, the activity times, and so on. I had never been a routine person in my life. I’m all about spontaneity, variety, new experiences. Now, I had very predictable yet very satisfying work—the most satisfying work of my entire life—loving a child. I gave him my all. Even though the difficulties of superficiality plagued us daily, I had important love work to do, and with a child who responded in a fulfilled way to every bit of it.
I never relented when given the option to either take a moment for myself or give a little more of myself to him. If there was ever a mom who did the right thing every chance she got, it was me. I don’t say that haughtily—I loved loving him, educating him, opening his mind to new things, and watching him connect with each new revelation about the world that came his way. He came out of the womb a voracious learner, a natural-born engineer. I loved reading endless books to him in the rocking chair and hiking up mountains next to his little energetic legs while talking about everything from rainbows to backhoe loaders. I loved explaining how every next thing in the world worked when he fired inquisitive questions at me, one after the other. I loved finding building sets and paper sculptures and fascinating gadgets that he’d be thrilled to learn from. When he was asleep, I documented his life, I wrote chapters of a book to him, I compiled photo books of our lives together. For someone who never thought deeply about motherhood until it was upon her, I ate it up, every minute. My husband may not have put me anywhere in his daily routine, but now I had someone who depended on me to be engaged and excited about life with him all the time. It was wonderful.
In the summertime, my husband could choose whether to teach or take time off for vacations. While being in his own house with his own rigid routine brought out so many difficult aspects of his personality, going somewhere else was a lighthearted experience of letting go. He couldn’t control all the aspects of a hotel or rental house, so he didn’t even try. And as long as he could incorporate a lot of running and hiking, he welcomed a temporary change of pace as long as our travels were predictable and nothing close to exotic. After five summers of returning to the same enchanting place and thinking about it all year until the next time we could visit, we were faced with a choice that changed our lives yet again.
One night in bed, I remembered a conversation my husband and I had years before. We knew that if we were ever going to have another child, it wouldn’t hurt to plan it a little bit so that both of us could be there for the baby. If we were to get pregnant and have a summer baby, he could easily plan that time off to be available.
All of a sudden that night in bed, I realized that the ideal summer that we had talked about for considering having another baby was about nine months away. I also realized at that moment that I was in the ideal phase of my cycle to get pregnant. Whoa! I whispered these things to my husband, and both of our minds were immediately abuzz. As we talked about all the things flinging through our heads, one decision came up that sounds a little ridiculously flippant: should we try for a second child or plan a sixth vacation to our favorite summer spot? As silly as it may seem, we mulled it over. We decided that since the moment was ripe for trying for a baby, we should just go for it. Nine months later, my doctor asked me which date I’d like to choose for the C-section. Amazing how children come about, isn’t it? My husband had kept his summer calendar free of classes, and we were both able to devote ourselves to loving and caring for our children.
Years before, in the throes of raising our first when I didn’t have a moment to myself, I had exhaustedly asked my husband if there was some way he could make time for me to have an hour or so off each day, even though he hadn’t ever made time to spend with me.
It dawned on him pretty heavily in that moment that yes, I, too, might like a chance to think, to breathe, to see the world. From that moment on, he set aside the same hour every day, 9 to 10 a.m. He would make sure he came home in the middle of his daily triathlon, without fail, to make sure I could get out.
This was a bright moment early on in our marriage. A signal that my husband could alter his strict routine in order to make a compassionate change for my sake. Rare yet significant actions such as this gave me hope.
That predictable, terribly-needed, kind gesture meant that for the next many years, I took a fast walk each day, fulfilling the needs I had to exercise, see nature, pass other people, and think my own thoughts. I’m not even sure I would have been so consistent had it not been for the fact that I knew he’d be there to fill in for me every single weekday.
Now with this new child, I was still getting that daily hour to myself thanks to my husband, and he was also making sure it coincided with the baby’s need to nap on him. The baby had decided at one point that he would no longer nap in the morning regardless of anything I did. I knew he needed one, and I spent gobs of effort rocking him, carrying him, walking him in the jogger, etc., all to no avail. Thankfully, the one thing he wanted was to fall asleep on his dad’s chest while being rocked, then to be put down in his bed. My husband happily obliged and made sure he was in that room every morning at the right time. I often came home to both of them sacked out, either in the chair or in the toddler bed. My husband would sometimes wrap himself around the baby in the toddler bed and cuddle until they conked out. I just love the pictures I have of that.
Nevertheless, our marriage remained devoid of intimacy for the most part. I couldn’t understand it. When we were in the midst of it on those rare occasions, he undeniably enjoyed it. Granted, it always had to be planned ahead or dialogued about, which felt uncomfortable and robotic, but I did my best to overlook that awkwardness for the sake of its reward. But even in the summers when we went on vacations together, I’d get my hopes up that some night we would get to enjoy intimacy together, perhaps just because we were in a new place and having fun. Vacation after vacation, nothing ever happened. Just more sadness that we were more like two distant cousins rather than one couple joined in marriage.
Years of bible study and learning about loving one another, forgiving, and seeing the plank in one’s own eye rather than the splinter in someone else’s caused me to realize life isn’t about changing someone. It’s about changing and developing oneself in ever-more-loving ways. Bible study paired with years of neglect brought a thought in my mind that I dreaded on the one hand, but one that could possibly free me on the other. I’ll never forget that day. I asked God to take my carnal desire for my husband away; to free me of my intimacy expectations and thereby free me of constant rejection. It was one of the saddest days of my life. But it was also a new beginning. From then on, the yearning was lifted from me and I had a new-found peace I could not have mustered on my own.
Sometimes you hear about things like this and think (cue heavy sarcastic tone), “Really??!”
I’m not the kind of person who “hears” God or “feels” any kind of relationship with him. If you were able to hop inside my brain for a minute, you’d know what I mean. Aside from the fact that I genuinely believe in God, he could be completely imaginary if you were to base it on any “connection” with him going on inside of me.
A lot of Christians would probably think I’m missing something by saying that, since a lot of modern Christianity today seems to involve what people feel and experience with God. Some Christians talk about their relationship with God a lot. I can’t claim anything like that. I wish I did feel something. I’m a right-brained “feelings” kind of person who loves relationships. Other people’s reactions to this have made me question myself. Is there something I’m missing? Am I not praying enough? Is there a secret key to “feeling” God in my life? Maybe, but I don’t think so; from what I’ve studied of him, I don’t think there’s a secret at all. That wouldn’t characterize the loving, welcoming, forgiving God I’ve read about over and over. Just because I don’t feel anything doesn’t make God any less real, in my opinion. I think each one of us experiences God differently. Maybe the chasing after a “feeling” has other people ragged in the whole mystery of it. Maybe there aren’t enough Christians admitting they don’t feel anything either even though they are pursuing him persistently. I don’t know. But if all of this is of any consolation to you in your own search, I hope it helps.
That night, despite my usual feeling of “non-connection” with God, my need to feel maritally whole through a yearning for intimacy was overtaken by a need to relinquish that yearning and the accompanying sorrow it bound me to. My request was somehow met in that prayer, and the physical craving I felt for my husband was lifted from me.
Neglect’s Toll on a Wife: Perfection’s Grip on My Husband’s Attention © 2023-2024 Lila Meadowbrook
