January 12, 2012

"Pickles and Parachutes"

It was past nine when he got home last night from a meeting that ran late. His daughter had fallen asleep holding my hand, and I’d had to pry it from her little fingers. After washing up, we lay head-to-foot and he rubbed my arches. It was late. My teary yawns came like steady contractions. 

“Baby,” I said. “I need to tell you something serious.”

“Okay,” he nodded. 

What bothers me isn’t the children or how they are always more important than us. It isn’t becoming something between a mother and a nanny--continually washing clothes and dishes, chauffeuring and counseling, consoling and scolding. It isn’t them at all; I can count the moments I feel overwhelmed on less than a half a hand. With the children it’s mostly a simple, perfect balance: they need me to be stable and I need them to be a little crazy. 

Instead, I’m concerned about the concept of marriage and all the details that go with it. He’s been talking prenup, how he was so lucky with his ex, how she only took a house and nothing more, how she could have ruined him by taking half. And though I’m not looking at marriage in terms of what I might gain financially, I also don’t want to be in the same position I was after my last go round. 

My ex was the home maker: cooking, cleaning, and not working. We did not have children, so most of his time was spent watching television. But he supported me emotionally through the loss of my father and the growth of my business. I gave him half, which was fair, but was it? Looking back I still think it was, even though the ordeal financially pickled me. I’m still trying to lose the vinegary aftertaste.

And prenups, in general, are distasteful to me. Why get married if you’ve got an escape route? But I understand his argument that it’s an insurance policy against either of us going crazy or changing beyond the ability of the other person to keep up (the second I learned well from experience). And I get that he wants to keep what he earns, especially since he’s much wealthier that I right now. But if we’re a team our two sides are supposed to merge. That means what’s made during the marriage should be split equally at its end. From the earning side of that equation, I gave it up--why should it be any different now? 

We’ve already talked about how he wants me to stay home for at least four years before our hypothetical child goes to school, which I’m fine with. So what if we procreate, then divorce? What happens to me when I’ve been financially idle for long enough to not have anything, and I’ve signed a prenup that says he keeps it all? I’ll be a kosher dill with even less time to recoup.

There are other issues, too. Financial issues, personality issues, an imbalance of power that I’m not always comfortable with, even though I said I wanted a man who takes charge. 

“You don’t have to work, Baby. You can just stay home. You can write.”

“Stay home?” I say, incredulous. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

“And it never dawned on me that my wife could contribute. It’ll be nice,” he says unconvincingly. 

Flags start snapping, big red ones, in my mind. How are we going to get through this? Sure, we love each other, but maybe we shouldn’t get married. Maybe we shouldn’t have kids. Sex, money, and remodeling: the top three reasons couples divorce. We’re already facing the last two and it hasn’t quite been nine months. 

“We should see a counselor,” I say. And he doesn’t cringe, doesn’t blink.

“Sure. Okay,” he answers. 

What does it take for a marriage to survive? And if we’re all in, does it mean we cease being separate? If I meld, where do I go? And if I’ve historically been the breadwinner, can I be a good follower? Does submitting mean I’m weak or incapable? Is the alternative that we ‘date’ indefinitely? Can either of our personality types handle that kind of surreality? These are questions I don’t have the answers to. 

Our coming together is complicated: a moving, breathing thing we must tend to, be gentle with, be kind about. There is always an end, even if it’s not at death that we’ll part. So maybe he gets a parachute if we divorce. If so, I get one, too.