Like my middle child, A, I’ve always been a bit headstrong. I’ve always known what I wanted and rarely quit until I got it.
College. Grad school. Marriage. Family.
Check. Check. Check. Check.
I didn’t even change my last name to R’s to the dismay of others in our families.
That’s right. I kept my own damn last name.
How did R feel? Like any other spouse should. He didn’t care so long as the kids had his last name. In case you’re wondering, the kids’ MIDDLE names are MY LAST NAME.
I recently read a friend’s status on Facebook where she was frustrated because she was on the phone, spelling her last name, and the saleswoman asked if she could just call her Mrs. [Husband’s Last Name]. I commented that she shouldn’t worry for I was changing the world one classroom at a time. Students curious about my kids’ names would wonder why our last names were different to which I’d reply, “Oh no, honey. You don’t have to change your name when you get married. It isn’t THE LAW.”
Somtimes R would come home, telling me what some of his friends say to their wives. Nothing horrendous, mind you. Comments ranged from sexist to slightly rude.
He’d always end with, “What would you do if I ever said that to you?”
My answers varied. “You know better than to say that to me.” “I’d leave your ass.” “You’d better have a new Coach purse in your hand.”
Once he asked me, “Would you really leave me?”
I replied, “Yes.”
He was shocked. “Really?”
“Actually,” I said. “I’ve only considered leaving you three times.”
I raised my hands as if surrendering. “Wait,” I said. “Only every time I was pregnant and didn’t know. It was the hormones!”
That sent him in shellshock, of course. I can’t remember when we actually had this conversation but I’m remembering it tonight.
Tonight is one of those nights where I feel a little off. Maybe it’s hunger and my body is sadly accepting that I’m taking in less calories. Maybe it’s because I skipped my mid-afternoon nap. After all, aren’t the hours from 2 pm to 4 pm strictly for siesta, for stay-at-home-moms-waiting-for-sub-jobs in particular? No?
I remember this wonderful blog called “They Call Me Dependent” written by a military spouse who is examines her identity in the military world of being SOMEONE’S dependent. She is sarcastic, hilarious, and if I could remember the exact address, I would put up the link.
But alas. I’m tired. Too tired to read. I’m lazy. Too lazy to Google the phrase “They Call Me Dependent” even though I just typed the phrase not once but twice. You can Google it later.
Tonight I am wishing I could be DEPENDENT for once in my life. I wish I didn’t have a geobachelor husband and that we actually lived in the same house, for consecutive days at a time. I’m not even asking for months or years. Weeks would be nice.
I wish I could be dependent and ask him pitifully to hold me until I went to sleep and if he could please ignore my drool if it ran onto his arm.
I wish I could be dependent and ask him for his opinion on what we should read to the kids for a bedtime story or what we should have for dinner tomorrow.
I wish I could be dependent and ask him if he wanted me to turn off the light because I can’t put this vampire novel down but I could definitely go downstairs and finish the chapter if the light was too bright.
I wish I had the option of being dependent for once.
If R were laying next to me, reading over my shoulder which he never does but it’s cute to picture it right now, he would ask if I wanted some cheese with this whine.
Then I’d punch him. And tell him that I wasn’t tired yet so could he please talk about history or black holes or something equally boring?
Yes, the option of being dependent would be quite nice right about now.
I have been notified by several fabulous readers that the website address is They Call Me Dependent. Thank you! Rock on!