At the start of every new serious relationship I make a vow that I will work hard to ensure that the honeymoon phase will never end. I am hopeful and enthusiastic as I promise myself that this time I won't get bored, I won't stop trying, and that if I see myself falling into my old habit, I'll communicate with my new love so that together we can fight to keep our relationship fresh, creative and exciting. Of course, after a while, no matter how hard I think I'm trying, it all starts to fall apart.
Suddenly, when he feeds me dessert from his spoon, it isn't like a mouthful of whipped heaven on Earth, it's just crème brûlée. And sitting on the beach to watch the sunset isn't so romantic anymore, it's more of an annoyance that leaves you with sand in your crack. The romantic place at the end of the Newport Pier that used to be "our" place to hold hands and make out is suddenly just a place at the end of the pier that now seems cold and windy and reeks of dead and rotting fish. And you're finally aware of the reality that the clouds have lifted, the rose tinted glasses have come off, the honeymoon is, in fact, over.
Now it's time to take stock of what you really have versus what you really want. And that's when you start to hear that tick-tock sound in the back of your mind. So, you ask yourself, is that my biological clock that I hear ticking? Is it Father Time, ticking away my youth? Or, last but not least, is it the final countdown to the end of yet another short-lived relationship?
Late one night, not long after I realized that our honeymoon phase had ended, I stood in the mirror wearing one of Jay's old, XL sweatshirts with a pillow tucked in the front, and all the memories of being pregnant came flooding back. The midnight cravings for Thai food, the having to pee every five minutes, the unbearable itch as my skin started to stretch, the leg cramps and the gas, enough to get me all the way to Hoboken and back.
Of course, on the flip side, all of those disgusting things brought my former husband and me closer than we'd ever been before. He would massage my legs to get the cramps out, rub my belly with vitamin E when it was itchy and he never minded the gas, or so he said. Sometimes he'd read to my swollen belly and talk to it about how excited he was to meet the little person that was taking up so much space inside of me. Our dreams to build the perfect family were coming true right before our eyes as the combination of his rugged good looks, strength, drive and thick dark hair meshed with my live-each-day-as-though-it-were-your-last- attitude and big, brown eyes to create our children. Both of our pregnancies were amazing and I wouldn't trade even one second of the miraculous events that brought us our healthy, beautiful children for all the shoes and handbags at Prada or Gucci.
So, how could I possibly expect Jay, the man that I love and am committed to now, to live his entire life without experiencing what I already know to be the most extraordinary miracle there is?
I can't. Tick-tock.
Over the past several months, we'd gotten into the habit of sweeping things under the carpet. Whenever we would disagree on something, no matter how small or large, we would politely agree to disagree and then follow-up by using sex to bridge the gap. Unfortunately, when you sweep all of your problems and disagreements under the carpet, sooner or later all you're left with is a giant pile of crap that you keep tripping over until you either work through it, or buy a bigger carpet. Our carpet seemed to be at its max and no amount of sex, no matter how mind-blowing it was, could fix what was broken between us.
As I stood at the side of the bed, watching him sleep peacefully, my heart was so full of love I thought it might burst. I stared down at the promise ring he'd placed on my finger the week before; it seemed to be the sole source of my recent confusion. When I went to have it sized, I actually thought about trading it in for a "promise watch" but then thought better of it. I kneeled down and let my finger gently trace the creases in his face that had been caused by 45 years of smiling his skillion-dollar smile. I touched his hair, a bit coarse from a lifetime of surf and sun. I ran my hand down his well-defined chest to his six-pack abs and finally rested with my head on his chest listening to the beat of his heart of gold. Tick-tock.
I love this man with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns. And I know that with his kind spirit, generous nature, compassion and wisdom he would be a wonderful father indeed. And he deserves that opportunity. Not just to have a hand in raising my children, a position that he so willingly accepts, but to share in all the wonder and joy of creating at least one child of his own to share his legacy.
As I laid there, head on his chest, tears streaming down my cheeks, I felt his hand gently stroke my hair. He opened his eyes and I sat up to look at him straight on, unable to sweep this under the carpet. He saw the pillow tucked strategically in the front of his old sweatshirt and the warmest smile took over his entire face. I slowly shook my head and uttered two tiny words, "I can't."
Let the countdown begin.
Sonja is a writer who covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?