Withholding No More

It's not fair. I should have told you this earlier. I'm a bad blogger. Bad. I left you completely out of the discussion that led to today's important turn of events:

J~ is going to the doctor this afternoon to get his sperm checked. Why assume it's just my body that's not cooperating?

"You could meet me there," he said, but I told him I feel a little uncomfortable about going along. After all, they're going to put him in a little room to fill a cup. I don't think they'll let me in with him, and how strange is that to flip through magazines while your husband is jerking off in the next room?

But then this morning I woke up with a change of heart. I asked, "Do you want me to come with you?"

After some deliberation where we clarified the word 'want" as opposed to "need", he said yes, so there you have it, I'm going. House and Garden, here I come.

One other thing you should know: after my last blog entry, I thought, obviously, I'm not over this yet. So tomorrow, I'm going for my first appointment with a counselor (a professional health-insurance-taking counselor, that is) since the few I had right after the ex left. I haven't met this one yet, so we'll see how it goes.

And I promise to let you know.

New Year, New Life

Before I talk about anything else, there's something I need to get off my chest.

An Open Letter to Last Year's Husband:

In the days leading up to Christmas, it occurred to me that last year at this time, you were having an affair. Whether or not anything "happened" while you shared a bed with her on that business trip is not the point. The fact that you had done it and kept it a secret from me is enough. The fact that you patted me on the back making pity noises when I admitted, repeatedly, that I couldn't shake my paranoia, is disgusting. The fact that you denied it to my face is incredibly disgusting. You were looking forward to seeing her again. You were excited about a potential relationship with her. Even the sexual energy that you brought to bed with me at the time, I now understand, was full of the tension building between you and her, and that makes me downright sick. The fact that I'm in a much better place now does not absolve you. The words "I'm sorry" do not absolve you. Even my forgiveness, which I realize now I offered artificially (wishfully) and prematurely, does not absolve you. I'm still pissed. I'm still hurt. And as much as I'd like to be above this kind of emotion, I sort of hate you.

Also, make no mistake about it, I divorced you because of your adultery. This was not a benevolent decision made together based on mutual drifting apart. This was a decision forced upon me by your unwillingness to choose between me and your mistress. Never once did you say you wanted to do the work to repair our marriage. Never once did you say you would choose me over her. If my choice was to either except that or kick you out, as far as I'm concerned, I had no choice. In fact, when it came right down to it, you chose her over me. I was not part of the decision at all. You left me for another woman, simple as that. Let me be very clear: I only agreed to call it "irreconcilable differences" so that I could get divorced from you as quickly and cheaply as possible. If I could do it over, I would, because I realize now that forcing you to face facts would have been worth every minute and every penny. You got off easy and you still make me sick.

Okay, dear readers, now that I have that out of my system, I can tell you about the part of my holidays that did not involve nauseating flashbacks to last year:

To make a long story short, we spent Christmas with my family and it was lovely, hanging out at my brother's house twenty minutes up the road, and at our smaller place with various configurations of family members before and after the big day.

With B~ tucked away at his mother's, J~ and I went to New York for New Year's weekend, making good time from our place in rural CT to my dad's in the city Friday evening, sleeping comfortably on an air mattress on the living room floor. We walked all day for two days in lower Manhattan, back and forth over the Brooklyn Bridge, from Battery Park City through Chinatown and Little Italy, the East Village, the Garment District, galleries in Chelsea, all the way up to Columbus Circle. On Saturday, we ate a late lunch at Spice Market, and on Sunday, brunch at Prune. We hit the MoMA close enough to closing to get in for free but not too close to miss the Brice Marden retrospective. As for New Year's Eve, we skipped Time Square hoopla in favor of the pleasantly crowded dance floor at Irving Plaza and our new favorite band, Brazilian Girls. Balloons and confetti fell on our heads at midnight, and we kissed and danced and proclaimed this, such a difficult year, the best of our lives.

We didn't get our wish for a positive pregnancy test on Christmas day, but we're both working on improving our general and reproductive health, and, as always, continuing to enjoy the effort. Who knows what 2007 will bring. I have no doubt, at least, that the reflection on the previous year's holiday season will be much more favorable.

Dirty Laundry

I can't stay away.

Not that I'm trying to -- There's been plenty to keep me busy what with the holidays, a steady stream of guests, and dramas with the ex (his this time).

I could rant for hours on this one, but long story short: when J~ refused to keep a line of credit open to his ex-wife, a line he was supposed to close as part of their divorce agreement, she started calling in the middle of the night to harass us, and now she's refusing to hold up her end of the court-ordered bargain. I'll spare you the gory details, (and spare B~, my step-son, in case he ever stumbles upon this blog) but suffice it to say, it's ludicrous, and she doesn't have a leg to stand on, legally. The whole thing has left me composing spluttering diatribes in my mind, which distill down to a single question.

Please, woman, I ask you in all seriousness: Are you insane?

It is strangely energizing to be angry, to feel righteous. I know it's only adrenaline, conjured by the sense that the well-being of my loved ones and myself is threatened. I know it is an energy of limited use in my life. But it's better than weeping over my own ex, who I'm still shocked was able to drop the ball of our relationship so entirely, never looking back to see if I was okay, if maybe I might benefit from just one more apology, even going so far as to ask ME to "keep in touch."

Please, man, while I'm at it, I'll ask you, too: Are you insane???

J~ feels anger, too, but he's also grieving, so his voice cracks with pain when he expresses it. There is lead weight in his stride, in his voice, as he contends with the full implications of his ex's behavior. This was the woman he had a child with, after all, the woman he was devoted to for fifteen years, the woman to whom he must remain tied, through their son, for the rest of his/her/B~'s life.

Bottom line? Back to court, apparently.

My ex is a loser, but at least not spiteful. I suppose I can be thankful for that.

Meanwhile, J~ and I admire each other's matching wedding rings, which we wear with a sense of thrill and wonder. After all the hell we've been through, (and are still going through, peripherally), we feel like the luckiest couple on earth.

Plus, we're still trying to make a baby. What could be more fun than that?

Or Not Yet

It's been exactly a year since I began this blog, so of course I had to write today. I thought I'd be reporting at least this month's answer to the babies or not question, but at this point, I still can't say for sure. I also thought this might be my final post. Now I'm not so sure about that either.

By my calculations, taking into consideration a later ovulation than usual, I should begin to bleed any minute. I back up this prediction with the pregnancy test I did yesterday, which returned an unambiguous not.

This is false hope. I know I should resist its seductive charms, the dream of J~ and I, laughing and crying and hugging in the bathroom when we see the positive test, the photograph of the result I'd post on this blog, the beautiful child, maybe another two years later, rounding out our happy family.

Every now and then I drop a dollar on a lottery ticket in order to spend a few days fantasizing about what I'd do with the winnings. Most of the fantasies are about nice things I'd do for my family and friends. When the drawing rolls around, I get a little thrill thinking, Maybe this time I'll actually get lucky! Then I see the winning numbers, which are not even close to my numbers, and I feel, briefly, derelict, and then silly for ever having hoped in the first place. Better to have spent that dollar on a pack of gum. Better to have spent my energy actually doing nice things, albeit cheaper nice things, for my family and friends.

If I still haven't begun to bleed in the next hour or so, I'll ask J~ to pick up a pregnancy test on his drive home from work. False hope must be dispelled by any means necessary. As soon as possible.

In the meantime, life goes on.

Speaking of which, I just called J~ (I'm a slow writer) and while we were talking, I began to feel that tell-tale slow-building crampy feeling in my gut. No blood yet, but I know where this is heading. Oh well.

I expected I'd be filling today's post with profound summations of what I've learned this year. Looking back over recent entries, I see I've already covered that ground.

All that remains now is to describe the visual in my mind that accompanies this momentous post: the sun, big and deep orange, dropping toward the far-off horizon, streaming golden light over the desert sand (Don't ask me why the desert, just notice that I've written "Babies or Not" in the foreground sand). My silhouette in the distance -- head high, plodding away on horseback (better: camelback!). The music swells as I disappear into the golden light, and, as if on cue, the sun sinks below the horizon. As the light changes to cool, blue, calm, the music trails away.

FADE TO BLA-- no wait! What's that on the horizon?

It's me, running back through the sand, unwilling to give up the blog, or the hope of my thankfully still-monthly roulette. I scrawl one more word in the sand. After "Babies or Not" I add:

"yet".

Getaway

This past weekend, J~ and I drove north, to a bed and breakfast near Northampton, Massachusetts, for a much-anticipated getaway. This was my stomping grounds nearly twenty years ago, when I first began to wrestle with my identity as an individual, as an adult.

On our first night in town, while I reminisced about the old days, not all of which were good-old days, J~ moderated a stressful extended family health-crisis/divorce drama via cell phone. We managed to enjoy each other's company over dinner, in spite of our hunger, exhaustion, and mutual anxiety, not to mention the excruciatingly slow service, the loud and crowded room, the somewhat too-sweet Asian-fusion fare, and the drift of our dinner conversation into the state of the world and the tragic plight of so many of its peoples.

We stopped spontaneously on a busy sidewalk afterward, with sirens and traffic and cold wind and people all around, marveling that in the midst of all the chaos and violence and pollution and eager angst, we can still find a peaceful oasis within each other's gaze.

Last time I was in Northampton, I was still working out who I wanted to be, sorting out where I'd come from, and developing the internal fortitude to find happiness without guarantee of more happiness to come. Until this trip, I've always thought about my relationship with J~ in the context of my relationship with A~, comparing the two versions of my married life. In both cases, my primary relationship focus is the man. But suddenly I saw the even more primary relationship -- with myself -- and its much longer and more solidly upticking evolutionary curve. I realized afresh just how constant and unpredictable is the phenomenon of change.

However fleeting the moment may be, I thought, the moment is all we have.

So we ducked into a jewelry store, partly because it suprised us to find such a shop open until nine -- we had to experience it to believe it; partly for the atmosphere (it was quiet and warmly lit, with high ceilings and ornate woodwork -- a long-ago bank lobby); but mostly to look at wedding rings.

In the next two days, I took J~ to my favorite restaurants (India House, and Paul and Elizabeth's), on my favorite hikes (up Mount Norwottuck, and through the pine forest behind Hampshire College), and on a walking tour of downtown Amherst and Northampton. We returned to the jewelry store, this time with purpose, picking out a matching pair of simple, not-too-shiny white-gold bands, which will be custom-made and mailed to us in the next few weeks.

We can't wait to wear them.

In the meantime, there is Thanksgiving.

Speaking of which, thanks to all of you who wrote me with congratulations on the wedding, and appreciations for this blog. It means a lot to me to hear from you. Wishing you the best this holiday.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

At this moment, my stepson is in the next room, being the typical twelve-year-old: doing homework (i.e. cruising iTunes). My man is at his men's group, getting and giving that good ole manly support. I am just home from the gym, curled up on the couch with my laptop propped on a pillow, feeling content.

The only clouds on my horizon are my ex, who has basically dropped off the face of the earth, and J~'s ex, who errs in the opposite direction, sometimes calling J~ three times in a day, imagining she and I are friends or will become so, while going wet-noodle limp in terms of holding up her end of the parenting bargain. But she lets J~ know how much she appreciates all he's done for her, and how sorry she is for her part in the downfall of their marriage. I'm glad he's receiving that healing salve, but I can't help but compare, and it makes me sad. Could twelve years of relationship truly go down the drain with just a "Thanks for everything. Keep in touch"? I guess so.

Tonight I will prepare myself a peaceful, solitary meal (my boys have already eaten). I'll compose my Thanksgiving shopping list. I'll file a few papers, and, come nine o'clock, herd B~ upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. J~ will return and we will have, as he puts it, "functional sex" (as opposed to the passion-driven sex we've been having all weekend, our first alone since marrying two weeks ago). Tonight is prime pre-ovulation time for my menstrual cycle.

I looked at my fertility chart a few minutes ago, and noted that my next period will be due November 27th or 28th. If it doesn't come, I'll be doing a pregnancy test by the 29th. The timing couldn't be more perfect. Exactly a year ago on that date, I sat down and began this blog, still reeling from my recent miscarriage, unclear as to whether there would ever be another pregnancy attempt in my life.

I could have never predicted the changes this year would bring, not the least of which is that I'm happy, and that the question (Babies, or not?), as well as the mantra, (Doing well... Babies or not.) are still very much alive.

We Did It

It is Saturday morning. J~ has made his ritual Saturday morning pancakes. Tomorrow, no doubt, he will make his ritual Sunday morning omelet. I am fresh out of the shower after a frosty four-mile run, feeling good, and still struck, as I have been since four nights ago, that a subtle but significant change has been made in my life.

No, I am not pregnant.

After dropping B~ with his friends for some downtown trick-or-treating, J~ and I stopped by Town Hall (it's open late on Tuesdays) to register me as a voter and to pick up a marriage license. Luckily for us, the office was abuzz with pre-election day preparations. Four women bustled behind counters and desks and a couple of men worked in the lobby area, setting up voting machines and tables and such. One of the men was the registrar of voters, also the dog warden, and several other positions he rattled off too quickly for me to retain. He and one of the women (the town clerk) handed me papers and pointed to where I was to sign. "I could marry you right now," he joked.

"Okay," we said.

Once it was understood that we were serious, he shrugged and smiled and said, "Alright. I'll do it," and performed a no-frills no-charge ceremony, consulting a paper-bound booklet for the procedure. "This is the first time I've done this," he admitted, having us raise our right hands to solemly pledge our "I do"s. He read the official questions and pronouncement straight from the booklet but ad-libbed his final line. "You may kiss the bride!" he laughed, and we and the bewildered and delighted women behind the counter laughed along with him.

J~ kissed me, and we held onto each other a long moment, while cheerful bustle resumed around us.

Two weekends from now we'll grab our chance for a mini-getaway. Maybe we'll find some wedding rings. Until then, and probably for a long time thereafter, I expect I'll continuee to be struck in random moments like this, by how modestly fabulous my life has become.