Dealing With the Mother of All Milestones: My Grief...It Is A-Changin'....

So, I feel like there is plenty of gloom and doom on widow blogs and, usually, as milestones approach, I’m one of those widows who’s gloomin’ and doomin’.

But not this year.

I always think it’s important to write about the things that we’re all trying to overcome because it usually makes at least one person out there sigh with relief and think, “Thank God it’s not just me.”

But as milestones approach, I know that some widows out there read these blogs with a little apprehension because they’re only a year out and the person writing is 10 years out, still talking about how hard Mondays are because that’s the day of the week her husband died.  And it worries the “newbies” because they’re still just trying to remember to put on deodorant in the morning and they live in fear that they'll still be that way in a decade.

I’ve never hidden the fact that my husband’s birthday is usually the hardest day of the year for me.  I have been known to go completely crazy, cry, yell, wallow, break up with perfectly nice people, and generally go around the bend for a good month before it happens.  November 19^th is right before the holidays get into full swing and usually by the time it’s done…I am in no mood for eating turkey, being thankful, or yuletiding a few weeks later.

Last year was more of the same.  I dreaded it, feared it, and generally just wanted it to go away.  I have spent the last 4 of my husband’s birthdays, creating a “Daddy Day” for my kids, taking them out of school for a day of junk food and frivolous activities…with a trip to the cemetery up in the mountains where he’s buried thrown in for good measure.  Of anything I have done, trying to raise my kids in theWiddahood…this is what I’m most proud of.  Daddy’s birthday is nothing to dread (for them) and something to look forward to.  Sure, they don’t have a dad like everyone else…but everyone else doesn’t get to have a Daddy Day.

So for one day out of the year…we can one-up the rest of the “normal” world.

I usually spend the day holding back tears and trying to curb my crankiness while they run around on a sugar high and thank God for a Dad who gets them out of school one day out of the year.

But this year has been different.

It’s the 5^th birthday he’s been gone…and I don’t feel all of the crankiness.  I’m not feeling the usual build up.  It may be hard that day…but I can honestly say that I feel pretty good right now.  What has been most interesting to me this year is that I now know that my kids really do understand the significance of that day.  Before I was trying to do so many things to distract them while also trying to commemorate the day (we do all of the things their dad enjoyed doing) and I really didn’t think they completely understood what it all meant.

Silly, Mom.  We’re getting older and we’re not as clueless as we might seem.

My son has a birthday party on Saturday in the middle of the day.  And at one point, he really considered not going.

“Am I going to miss Daddy Day?”  He asked.

“No,” I said.  “We’ll just go get pizza, let our balloons go, and maybe go to the movies that night when the party is done.  The girls and I won’t do anything without you.”

“But what about going to the mountains?”  He asked, looking concerned.

“Oh sweetie, we won’t have time to do that on Saturday since the party is in the middle of the day.”

Long pause.

“Do you want to go on Sunday?”  I asked.

“Yes.”

I was pretty damn proud of us all that moment.  That I had created a day that we can spend together doing something as a family…my husband would have loved that.  And that, 4 years later, beyond the pizza, the bowling, the movies, or whatever else we might do…that the most important thing about Daddy Day to his 7-year-old son is that we go and visit him…even if it means missing out on a birthday party.

On my husband’s 39^th birthday, our 5^th without him…I can honestly say that life is good.

That the kids are thriving.

That every time one of them accidentally lets a balloon go when we leave Red Robin…there are no tears because it means it’s going to Dad.

That even though he died when they were just babies…they seem determined that he will never be forgotten.

I Would Rather Pass a Kidney Stone Than a Milestone

It’s late and I’m tired.  Which means that this blog may not turn out like I want it to.  But since I’m alone and left with the History Channel (which has somehow changed from how the states were formed to how the pot industry has grown)...I guess I’ll write.

My birthday is next week which is the 2^nd hurtle in the line of 4 that I have to deal with in the next month.  The first was Father’s Day which I somehow managed to sleep through.  I’m still not quite sure if this lack of consciousness was due to a virus or my inability to deal with the day.

Something that only you Deep Grievers will understand.

All I know was I had no business being behind the wheel of my daughter’s foot-pushing toddler car...much less the powerful engine of my minivan.

This year will mark 4 years.  FOUR YEARS.  Four years of my sad little cluster of dates.  Father’s Day.  My birthday.  His “death-a-versary” and my wedding anniversary.  I’m seasoned.  I’m a professional griever.  I’m halfway through my medical degree in grieving.

And I spent my few hours awake wondering why in the hell it was still so hard.

I came to a conclusion that I thank my “thinking sweats” for ( you know...those clothes that you’ll wear for days and think no one actually recognized you in.  Like you were incognito while you were in your “break down wear.”)  (Side note:  They noticed you but were too embarrassed to claim you.)

So here it is.

It’s not the milestone.  It’s the revelation.

Think about it.  With every birthday, holiday, or Monday...you’ve passed something.  Yes, I realize that it sounds like a kidney stone.  But the truth is...it’s much more painful.  And more enduring.  And can’t be broken up by lasers.

Last year, around my birthday, I had a similar breakdown.  I realized that I was about to turn the same age that my husband was when he died.  And that made me sad.  UNBELIEVABLY sad.  So sad that my insides turned out.  So sad that my life, which I thought had already been turned upside down...turned upside down again (which I realize should make it right side up...but it didn’t).

Deep down, in my core...just...sad.

And then it passed.  Life went on and I was so relieved to just be over that milestone.  I thought for sure that I would never feel that bad about my birthday again.

Until this year.

A couple of weeks ago, I felt the milestone coming again.  I’m going to tell you what it looks like.  It looks like the clouds are building...but you think the storm is going to pass you by.  Then they turn green and threatening and you wonder if it’s possible to take shelter.

And then it’s there on top of you...like a swirling vortex of life you can’t dodge.  And all of the contents of your life are circling.

And you wonder if they’re going to land intact or in pieces.

My milestone is coming.  It’s circling.

My sister asked me today, what I wanted to do for my birthday next week.  And I told her, “I don’t care.  I just want it to be over.”

She said, “That makes me so sad.  You’ve always loved your birthday!”

And I said, “No haven’t.  Not since he died.”

I’ve always been the youngest of my group of friends.  I have always been a few years younger, or a few months younger...something that everyone has joked about.  I’m the baby of the group.  I was the last one to get a license.  I was the last one who could get into a bar.  That was my job.  That was my place. 

This year...for the first time I realized...I’m not the youngest of our group anymore.

He is.

© Catherine Tidd 2011

I Thought I Could....

Since I blogged this morning about my intention to have a good day today, my husband’s birthday, I felt like it was only fair to bookend it with how the day actually went.

I’ll give you a hint...I’m sitting here with a vodka/orange juice in my hand because on top of what happened today...I feel like I’m coming down with a cold. 

This beverage is the only way I can figure out how to combat both my day and my cold at the same time.

The morning started out okay.  We left the house full of hope and optimism, setting out for the grocery store to buy balloons before we headed up to the mountains.  All the kids decided to get the same color balloon (which was a miracle in itself) and having this decision made would save me at least an hour in the Helium Section.  

As we walked to the floral department, I decided at the last minute to buy my husband one single yellow rose (like he used to give to me) as a birthday present if they had one.  I looked up at the “single” bouquets and there it was...a single yellow rose right smack in the middle of a bunch of white ones.  It was the only one they had.

All good signs, right?

We left the store, all holding a Starbucks cup (hot cocoa for them, caffeine for me) ready to conquer the day!

Apparently that was when Good Karma decided to leave early for Thanksgiving to beat the holiday rush.

We were about 30 minutes out of town, driving in the old minivan, when my oldest suddenly screamed out, “MOM!!!!!  She drew on the seat with marker!!!” 

Sure enough, I would find out later...my 4 year old had decided to make her own permanent seat covers by doing some sort of abstract drawing of a “zebra playing catch with a fish while driving a semi” creation on the third row seat of my car.

Now...what I was expected to do about it while going 75 miles an hour on the highway...I still do not know.

The most interesting thing about this was that it sent my son into a frenzy of reprimanding her.  Never mind that he had actually stamped his own name (in permanent marker) on the back seat last year.

Anyway.  Still determined that this would not get me down, I took a deep breath and just decided to get over it then and there.  I could wash it off, right?  In the grand scheme of things...what’s a little marker (or mural) in a minivan anyhow?  That child could be famous some day!  She probably just raised the value of this car by thousands.

Yeah!  That’s it!

As we started getting closer to the “last stop” before we really got to the middle of nowhere, I thought I should be proactive and stop for a potty/lunch break, even though my son had assured me that if he had to go to the bathroom, he could find an obliging tree.  Feeling like peeing in the middle of a cemetery might be frowned upon, I pulled off the highway and spotted the only restaurant in town that didn’t involve fries (Qdoba).

Once inside, my 9 year old daughter very politely asked if she could sit next to me in the booth and I (not seeing the shit storm ahead) said yes.

At that moment, for some reason, my 6 year old son suddenly decided that sitting next to my 4 year old daughter was akin to sitting next to 50 pounds of plutonium and proceeded to throw a complete fit.  And I mean...a fit.

I learned a very valuable lesson today.  My desire and determination to “make it a good day” is no match for the temper of my 6 year old boy. 

I gave him “the look.”  I gave him that scary mommy-angry-under-the-breath voice.  Finally I dragged his 6 year old butt over to the check out where I was standing, just trying to buy quesadillas in peace.

The very sweet people working there asked if they could help me to my table and I calmly replied, “No, thank you.  He can carry his lunch and I’ve got the rest.”

At which point my son stomped his feet and his lunch slid to the floor.

Seeing what I’m sure looked like my eyes spinning around and smoke coming out of my ears, the wonderful woman at the cash register looked at me and said cheerfully, “We can clean this up!  Here’s a free quesadilla!  And here...chips and guacamole!  It’s okay...I have children!”

It was like she was trying to convince me that, with enough greasy Mexican food, I would have the strength to raise this child to adulthood.  I was about ready to hug her and take her home with me.

I sat at the table, a lump in my throat so big I couldn’t even eat.  What was I doing???  Were the “powers that be” trying to tell me that I couldn’t do this alone???  Why didn’t I pick a restaurant that served wine??????

Once back in the car, tears rolling down my face (and my kids blissfully unaware of my nervous breakdown thanks to Scooby Doo on DVD), we finally made it up to my husband’s final resting place.  I placed the rose on his headstone.  The kids and I sang “Happy Birthday,” made a wish, and let the balloons go.  We were having such a nice time, we decided to scrap our original plan for the second half of the day...wandering around the Museum of Nature and Science.  We thought we’d just catch the IMAX on the Hubble Telescope so that we could hang out by the creek a little longer.

For about 30 minutes...everyone was happy.

I finally called the 5 minute warning so that we could get to the movie downtown on time.  I had left us plenty of time and even worried about what I would do to keep them occupied when we got there too early.  As some of you may know...the IMAX doesn’t let people in early.  And, at the appointed time, the doors close and NO ONE can get in.

We were 2 minutes late.

Still determined that I could beat this day into submission, I checked my phone for other movie listings.  And...what’s this????  Another IMAX that’s showing the Hubble movie???  And it’s closer to my house????

Choosing to ignore the fact that I was dumb enough to not check this in the first place, I rushed the kids into the car and went as fast as I could (in rush hour traffic) to get to the theater.  For the first time, I felt like Fate was offering me her hand and saying, “Here.  Let me help you.  I’ll even get you there early.  And you can grab some pizza with the kids before the movie starts.  In fact...let me buy you a Bud Light for your trouble.”

As we waited for our pizza, the man at the next table leaned over and asked, “Excuse me?  Do you know where the IMAX is?”

And I said, “Yes!  It’s right across the street!  We’re headed there ourselves to see the movie on the Hubble Telescope.  Is that what you’re seeing?”

He said, “No.  There’s a movie about migration.  Gosh...I didn’t know they had so many theaters.”

Now wait...I couldn’t have this wrong could I???  I dug out my phone and checked trusty old Yahoo! movies and sure enough...Hubble Telescope.  November 19th.  Six PM.

We finished our pizza and made it there right on time.  I parked the car in front, flipped on the hazards, and told the kids, “Wait here.  I’m going to double check and make sure it’s playing.”

Sure enough.  I walk into the theater and what do I see?

Migration.

I plop myself back into the car, ram the gear shift into drive, and yell, “HOME!  Pay Per View Movie!” 

This declaration was met with noisy applause from the backseat.

I almost make it home when it hits.  Complete hysteria.  I’m laughing.  I’m crying.  I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.  I’m afraid I may have snorted a couple of times.

The kids are suddenly very quiet in the backseat.  Finally, my oldest says quietly, “Mom?  What’s so funny?”

Still laughing uncontrollably, I answer, “Oh sweetie.  This was just a bad day.  I mean, not all parts of it were bad.  We did some fun things.  But sometimes things get so bad they’re funny.  Remember how I always tell you if you’re getting bullied the best thing you can do is laugh right in their face?  Well, today bullied me.”

HA.


For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2010

I Think I Can, I Think I Can, I Think I Can....

The dreaded day has finally knocked on my door and made itself at home today.  Yup.  My husband’s birthday just walked right in, grabbed a beer, stole my remote, and made itself comfortable on my couch.

Now you know why I dread it so much.  It never lets me watch “The View.”

Yesterday I finally told myself that it’s time to practice what I preach.  I’ve spent the last week with a constant lump in my throat and a really bad attitude.  And yesterday I decided that it was enough.  I know I can’t control my grief, but today, my husband’s birthday, I am going to take many deep breaths, cry a little (I’m sure), and make a conscious decision to have a good day.

I’m a big believer that the way we live our lives and the things we can make happen are something that we can, on a certain level, decide.  I’m not delusional enough to think I can control everything.  But I believe that if I want to get going with my life, whether it’s with my job, or finding a new relationship, or making life better for my kids...that I can’t just sit around and wait for things to happen.  Sometimes life will happen to you.  But sometimes you make life happen. 

And today that’s what I’m going to do.

As I sit here and type this, I’m taking my famous 4 deep breaths (thanks, hubby), and making a conscious decision to have a good family day with the kids.

I’ll let you know how it works out.

As many of you know, I had to give a speech yesterday, and I spent the week cursing myself for scheduling it the day before my husband’s birthday.  I tried to tell myself that it was perfect timing...a great way to honor a great guy.  But the truth is...it was just really damn hard.  To talk about what an amazing guy he was without him here to say to me with a smug look on his face, “See???  I knew you liked me!” was pretty tough.

But it was a small and appreciative group and I really enjoyed meeting the people who were attending.  Especially one woman who had lost her husband around the same time I had lost mine and who has been following the blog for a little while.  It always shocks me that anyone is following it, so to meet someone in person was a little surreal.  And, as most of you may already know, to hug someone who knows what you’ve been through is truly a gift.

This week has been part of that widow lesson that we all learn sooner or later.  That as much as we dread the things that are coming up, the days do pass and the milestones do come.  We can kick and scream and try and push time away as hard as possible, but the sun always sets and a new day dawns.  And before you know it...the days we fight the most have been and gone and we start dreading the next one.

I always hesitate before I post a blog when I’m having a tough time.  On one hand, I think it’s important for people to know that I am human and that I’m not immune to the fact that grief sneaks up on all of us when we least expect it.  On the other, I worry that someone who is 3 months out is reading it and thinking, “OMG.  She’s three years out and she’s a total wreck!  How am I ever going to make it?”

I’ll let you in on a little secret.

When you hear people say, “The second year was the worst!” or “I thought I’d never get through that third year” that means that it was difficult...for them.  We all grieve at our own pace.  We’re all leading different lives.  People who haven’t had time or can’t allow themselves to really grieve for awhile...they’re probably going to have a harder time later on.  People who tried their best to meet this as head-on as possible, may have the worst behind them in the first year. 

Who knows????

So, when I say that I’ve had a hard time this year with my husband’s birthday...that means that it’s been tough...for me.  Please don’t assume that the 4^th birthday your spouse will miss will have you diving back under the covers as I did this year.  There’s a good chance that you’ll get through it just fine.

I guess now I’ll leave you so that I can go buy the birthday balloons, pack the kids up, and head up the mountain to visit my husband.  I know that I’ll stand there, looking at his grave and still, four years later, feel utter disbelief that this is the way we’re celebrating his birthday.

But then I’ll look up.  Watch the kids let their balloons go with the complete certainty that those balloons will find their dad.  Drink in the blue sky and listen to the river below us.  I know that this day too will end.  Tomorrow will come.

And I will try my hardest to make it a good day.

The Weather Is Gray. And So Am I.

I’m not exactly sad enough to be blue. I’m not depressed enough to be black. I’m falling somewhere in between the two.

Next week is my husband’s birthday. I know I’ve mentioned this before...but his birthday is really my hardest day (I think...it’s really hard to narrow that down, isn’t it?).

What’s interesting is that I don’t think most people know that. The holidays are obvious grief triggers, so people are watching me closely then. I’m fortunate to have friends who will always remember the anniversary of his death and really take care of me then. But his birthday is something that most people don’t remember...and it’s hard for me to explain to others why it’s Milestone Mountain for me.

I’ve started to think of his birthday as the start of “the next year.” Instead of thinking of his anniversary as a huge milestone, I sit around and think, “This is the 4th birthday he’s missed.”

My husband is the same age as my sister and her husband, as well as a lot of my friends, so that always makes it interesting. I look at them and wonder what he would be doing now. Would he be advancing his career like some of them are? Would he be taking my son to golf lessons? What kinds of changes would we have gone through together?

I’ve learned enough about myself, in the last few years, to know that the week before the actual day is the worst for me. I get tired. I feel drained all of the time. I snap at my children because the slightest request suddenly seems overwhelming to me. I cry for no reason (usually in the car). And since most people don’t realize how hard his birthday is...they have no idea what the hell is wrong with me.

What compounds the problem is...I don’t like to tell them. At least, not when I’m actually going through it. It’s hard to believe that someone who started a support page can get pretty bad about talking about her grief with others...but that’s the truth. I retreat back into what I think of as “my cave.”

Most of the time, I write about how I hope that people start to have a better and more positive attitude about life because I want them to know that a happy life is very possible, even in our situation. And don’t get me wrong...I like my life. I can do my life. I’m starting to get to a pretty good place.

But this is one of those times when I truly understand that we sometimes just need to wallow. So, just so you know...when you tell me that you’re just feeling sad...I get it.

I don’t need anyone to fix this. I don’t need anyone to take me out for a spa day (but if you offer...I won’t argue). I don’t need anyone to try and make me feel better.

I need to feel what I’m going to feel for a few days.

I know I’m making it sound simple. It’s really not. It’s not easy for me or the people who care about me. I don’t like to talk about what’s going on. I would rather turn inward. And for someone who lives her life so...outward...when I get like this, it’s very confusing to those around me.

The feelings I have are indescribable...I could never do them justice with words. If I tried, it would never make sense to someone who isn’t...me. There is a cloud in my soul and I just have to be patient with myself until it dissipates.

Usually, on the actual day of my husband’s birthday...I’m fine. I can talk about what a great guy he was. My feelings will have come to the surface once again...and I can actually explain what’s going on.

Until then...be patient. I’ll be a different color in a few days.

Trying to Beat the Birthday Blues

I hesitate to write this blog, because for some people…this little issue may not have occurred to them yet. And if that’s the case…I apologize ahead of time if it has you popping open a box of wine after you read it.

My birthday is coming up next week. I’ve never really had a problem with birthdays. I’m not really all that concerned with getting older. Maybe because I’ve always been the “baby” of the bunch (by about 4 months…but younger is younger). I don’t panic about wrinkles, gray hair, or sagging (although that muffin top is DEFINITELY not my friend). I guess one could say I’m able to embrace who I am and just go with it.

For me, losing my husband only strengthened this attitude. I feel lucky to be here and I don’t take anything for granted. To me, the signs of aging are like a badge of honor and signify the fact that I’m making it. I don’t really care if the “badges” come in the form of stretch marks and age spots. I’ll take it. It’s better than the alternative.

The only time getting older really bothers me is when I make the mistake of going out downtown with friends about once a year and I wonder how all of those 12 year olds got into the bar. And why does that music have to be so damn loud???? And why can’t I bounce back the next morning like I did when I was 21??

I feel like I got over the hump of age anxiety early. When I was 16, my best friend got a job as a lifeguard at our neighborhood pool. I just remember looking at her in amazement and saying, “How could you get that job? All of those people are so old!” And then it started to sink in that we were that old.

After that, I’ve pretty much accepted the aging process. That is…until this year.

This year I will be turning 34. And for those of you who are now rolling your eyes because you’re a few years older than me, keep reading. There’s a perfectly good reason why this is causing me to have a minor meltdown.

My husband was 34 years old when he died.

I remember even during the raw grief I felt, shortly after he passed away, thinking, “I bet 34 is going to be a hard year for me.” I don’t know if it’s difficult now because I thought that and have been anticipating it all of these years, or if it would have been hard anyway. The truth is, I kind of forgot about it until a friend of mine and I were discussing what I wanted to do for my birthday. Somehow, talking about it, sent me into a tailspin that had me tearing up just about every 5 minutes for no apparent reason.

I know that some of us experience a loss due to illness. We knew it was coming. We knew for awhile that our spouse would probably be a certain age when they died. I don’t mean that that makes it any easier…loss is sudden no matter how much notice you have.

But my husband’s death was in no way expected. So I had no clue that he wouldn’t see 35. Not that knowing would have made it any easier. But I have this image of him kissing me goodbye in the morning. And then everything stopped for him. And kept moving for me.

All I keep thinking is…this was it for him. Thirty-four. What would it be like if life stopped for me right now? What if this was all I was going to see, all I was going to do? Because the truth is…I feel so young. I don’t feel ready to be gone. And I can’t imagine that he did either.

His revenge is that he will always remain 34 to me. As I grow older and have to tuck my boobs into the waistband of my pants because gravity has taken over, he’ll still remain youthful and energetic. As my knees start to creak and my eyesight starts to go, he’ll always be ready for an adventure in my memory. As time moves on for me, he will have tapped into the mythical fountain of youth in my mind.

As I posted on the Widow Chick Facebook page yesterday: “Do you find the anticipation of a "milestone" day harder than the actual day...or the other way around?” For me it’s always the anticipation. Because the meltdown I felt last week and took out on unsuspecting strangers and friends has subsided. I feel almost ready to meet this birthday head-on and beat it into submission. But I’ll be thinking of my husband all day (as I often do) and hope that if I see him again someday, he’ll remember me as that 31 year old wife who kissed him goodbye.

Until then…I guess the best that I can do at this point is live each day as if it’s the last I’ll ever see.

For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2010

Tell It Like It Is

One of the hardest things about losing my husband was missing the person I felt completely comfortable with. You know…that person you can hang out with in ripped, paint spattered sweatpants with your hair in a scrunchy that you’ve held on to since the 80s. That person who will tell you when you have spinach in your teeth.

That person who will just flat-out say when you’re doing something dumb and you won’t hesitate to extend them the same courtesy.

Now, most people don’t think about this. But when you’re left to start all over, all you’re left with are a lot of people you have to be polite to. And you really don’t miss that level of rude honestly until it’s gone.

Like, I can’t say to my friend, “You’re going out in that?” Or I guess I could but I bet I would find myself friendless before too long. I can’t say to my dog, “For God’s sake, brush your teeth in the morning before you kiss me.” Because she really doesn’t care. And if I’m out on a date for the first time, I can’t just blurt out, “That’s nice. But wait until you hear about my day” because he could really probably give a crap about what’s going on with me.

I missed having that person around that I could talk to and say, “You know what? You look like someone who shopped out of the bargain section of a dumpster today. But I love you anyway.” And he would return the compliment.

I don’t know if any of you achieved that level of honesty with your spouse and, to be quite honest, it took me awhile to get there with mine. But after 13 years together, we had finally gotten to the point where we could just really let ‘er rip. And now I’m always worrying about everyone’s feelings and whether or not I’ve said the right thing in the right tone of voice with the right look on my face.

I remember, not long after my husband died, having a conversation with my mother about how I had lost the only person I felt like I could be completely honest with. How it had taken me years to get to the point where I could successfully tell someone “like it is” without worrying that he would pack his duffle bag and hit the road. I think back to a conversation we had years ago that, at the time, didn’t seem important. But now, it’s like a benchmark for the start of every relationship I have.

It was my birthday. My husband had very thoughtfully taken the kids out to choose a birthday cake for me and when they came home, they presented me with a beautifully decorated ice cream cake.

But I hated ice cream cake.

As I sat through a lovely dinner and the traditional blowing of the candles, I thought to myself, “Should I just let this slide, or should I tell him?”

I finally came to the conclusion, after we had put the kids to bed, that I should just come clean and tell him that I wasn’t crazy about ice cream cake. After all, it was possible that we could be married for another 60 years and I didn’t want another 60 ice cream cakes. I reconciled this with my conscience by thinking that I was actually doing him a favor by telling him the truth. I told myself that it would be like I was lying to him if I didn’t.

The conversation went something like this:

“Sweetie…I just wanted to let you know…I’m not crazy about ice cream cake.”

“You’re not?”

“No…ice cream cake is your favorite. Not mine. I like regular cake.”

“Really? Well, I’ve never really liked your chicken parmesan.”

WHAT??

After years of making the same recipe that I thought he loved, I found out that he hated it.

We then proceeded to have a conversation for the next half hour about all of the things we had been doing that the other person disliked. There were no hard feelings. There were no tears. And I stopped making the dreaded chicken parmesan.

When I told my mother about it later, she couldn’t believe that we had actually done that. And, after he was gone and I was forced to acclimate myself to more “civilized” relationships, I couldn’t believe it either.

I mean…how many women tell their husbands they don’t like a dessert?

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© Catherine Tidd 2010