My thanks to Erma Bombeck, Queen of Chick Lit

 

When I married Prince Charming, I didn’t expect to marry other people, too. That’s another dirty secret nobody tells little girls who dream of Ever After. For instance, I inherited a brother who talks all of the time and his wife who hates me. The first Christmas of my marriage union was such a delight. I had 3 new brothers who had 3 new wives, all jealous of one another, watching each other open gifts and comparing who got more of what. Fun times. To top it off, my mother-in-law (as if I needed another mother) gave me the strangest of gifts. A set of Erma Bombeck novels with a personalized note: “This is how I survived my first few years of marriage. Enjoy!” How insulting! She didn’t know me at all. I was in Newlywed Heaven, and I didn’t need to survive anything (except my time with her). To show that lady just how evil she was, I put those books in a box and forgot about them until last week.

 

From At Wit’s End:

It’s those rotten kids. It’s their fault wake up every morning feeling so depressed.

“I think she hears us. Her eyelids fluttered.”

“Wait till she turns over, then everybody cough.”

“Why don’t we just punch her and ask her what we want to know…”

I don’t know how long it will be before one of them discovers that by taking my pulse they will be able to figure out by its rapid beat if I am faking it or not, but it will come.

 

***

Of course, none of these things would bother me if I had an understanding husband. Mother was right. I should have married that little literature major who broke out in a rash every time he read Thoreau. But no, I had to pick the nut standing out in the driveway yelling at the top of his voice, “I am thirty-nine years old… I will not carry a Donald Duck thermos to the office!” Boy, he wouldn’t yell at me if my upper arms weren’t flabby. He never used to yell at me like that. He should worry. He doesn’t have to throw himself across the washer during “spin” to keep it from walking out of the utility room. He doesn’t have to flirt with a hernia making bunk beds.

 

 

What was I thinking?! Erma Bombeck is to Chick Lit what George Washington is to America. How did I not know about her? (OK. I placed her books in a box for years. Sue me.)  How was I supposed to know that those books revealed the unspoken secrets of marriage and children? (OK. My other mother tried to warn me.)

 

I spent years thinking my husband’s mother was the source of my misery, only to discover that she’s actually a smarter, more helpful, slightly-less-cynical version of me.

 

Hmmmm.

Happily Ever After

            Kate sits in her favorite chair, wine glass in hand, cushy velvet slippers adorning her feet, and sips slowly from the glass. The living room is spotless, and a peaceful quiet fills the air. She wonders for a moment how she got to this place of tranquility and remembers with a grin. Ah, yes. Kevin. The man of her dreams. It was fate who brought her to this very moment.

             Ha.

             I’m Kate, and I’m in my living room sipping a quick cocktail because my six-year-old just yelled, “You’re not the boss of me!” then hit me. The wine glass is a façade, really, a ploy that momentarily tricks me into thinking my life is serene and majestic.

And, yes, I’m a good mother.

 

            I don’t typically resort to numbing life’s pain with alcohol. Life is all about pain, and I face it head on! It’s just that facing a ticked off kindergartner is a little scary sometimes.

            So here I sit, in blissful silence. Blissful. Silence. Well, blissful’s correct, but the silent part may be a tad inaccurate. “Mommy!” stomp, stomp. “Mommy! I need you!” stomp, stomp. I didn’t know the ceiling could talk. I’m sure it will apologize soon for hitting me. I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive the ceiling just yet.

            (Yes, the word ceiling is a metaphor for my little princess.)I know you’re thinking that parents aren’t supposed to judge their children, that we can discipline with love and be the “adults” who don’t hold grudges or stoop down to a child’s level. I believe that – I really do. It’s just that right now, sitting in my living room all alone, I have to wonder why I ever agreed to pay for TaeKwonDo lessons. I mean, who does she really need to defend herself against? It’s the rest of us who need protecting.

            And Kevin. Dear, sweet, Kevin. My very own Prince Charming; the man I chose. I-CHOSE-HIM. I repeat those words slowly time and again, my mantra; a reminder of that happy day that changed my life.

            He’s a prince.

            Absolutely.

            In fact, moments before Isabella asserted her independence, my prince shared in the joy of our marital union by watching our favorite t.v. show with me. Albeit, we had to watch it on the laptop because our DVR is broken, but that made the moment more cozy. We actually had to touch each other. It was pure bliss!

           Sadly, our cuddle time was harshly interrupted by a calamity of proportions so large, my knight yelled, “Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, *!*!” To utter that word, something disastrous must have happened. I jumped up, knowing that Kevin just witnessed a tragic accident through the front window. As he did, I felt a wetness creeping around my waist. Great.

            “Honey? What is it?”

            “I spilled my drink.” Hmmmm. I don’t recall him even having a drink, and I say so. He smiles the smile of true love and says, “I had shoulder pain, so I balanced the can on my neck. It was cold.”

            He had a pain in the neck? Oh, the irony!!

            Yes, the man I daydreamed about all of my childhood placed an open canned beverage on his neck while watching a t.v. show on our computer. The can tipped over (who could have seen that one coming?!) and rolled off his neck, drizzling the cushions of our couch.

            I love, honor, and cherish this man. 

            I really do.