Page 9 of Untangled
Beep! Beep!
The sound of the timer snaps me back to a reality where I’m sitting on my bed and feeling remarkably exposed.
Daniel brings a hand to rub down his face, like he needs a moment to shake off the experience too.
“Any reflections?” I ask, unsure where we go from here. I wish the card had provided some wrap-up instructions.
“It was really nice to just…be here with you,” he replies. “I think I like these activities. I’m excited to do them with you every night.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I get so caught up in what needs to be done, distracted with work, making sure all the pieces fit there and at home that sometimes I’m on autopilot. Doing something different like this, it’s been good for me. Hopefully for you too.”
“Agreed. I may not understand the methodology—and don’t get me wrong, your eyesarevery handsome—but maybe it’s less about the task and more about the daily commitment to spend time and effort on each other. On us.”
He nods before snagging one of my hands and asking, “You know what I was thinking during the staring contest?”
The phrasing makes me chuckle. “Hmm, that becoming a mother has aged me for the worse?”
“No. Absolutely not. I was thinking that if I had known you were going to look this good in your 30s, I would’ve locked you down sooner.”
“You did not,” I add with a scowl, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
“I did, and I stand by it.” His tone is as sincere as I’ve ever heard it. “Listen,” he continues, “I don’t tell you enough how grateful I am for you. I know I haven’t been the most available, emotionally or otherwise, in too long. I know I’m not as flexible or attentive as you deserve, and I’ve left a lot of apologies unsaid. I’ve been thinking over the past few days about how we got here—why you wanted to do this with me—and I want to own my part of it. Thank you for bringing me the opportunity to do that.”
I…
Bowled over, is how I feel.
Some combination of surprised and pleased and grateful mixed with disbelief.
Daniel has never been the most expressive. He waited a year to tell me he loved me, though it was obvious eight months earlier, to both of us. So hearing him wrap up these thoughts and hand them to me without reservation is a gift bigger than he knows.
“No, thank you,” is the only way I can respond. “Thank you for saying that.”
He leans over and presses his mouth to mine, the ritual of a goodnight kiss we’ve kept through the highs and lowsof the last eight years. But today it feels different, charged with new energy. It’s familiar, comfortably so, but with a little something extra, like a twist of lime in a favorite drink. Heightened. It lasts for a second longer than normal before he pulls away.
“I mean it, Molly. I really do.”
Day6
Give your partner a massage.
His fingers spread wide over my shoulder blades and push into the muscle at the base of my neck. They are deliciously warm. He intended as much when he rubbed his palms together to generate heat, a byproduct of friction.
It’s funny, isn’t it? But true:
So often, we butt heads. We grate against each other. It builds into simmering frustration that sometimes, inexplicably, becomes sexual tensionthat spills over.
Friction, then heat. The first law of thermodynamicsandthe working principle behind make-up sex.
Friction. The word may be gentler than what’s accurate to describe the state of affairs between Daniel and I.
I needed two things from him today: to pick up eczema cream on his way home from work, and to get his golf bag out of the front hall. I have a crystal clear image of holding Violet on my hip, balancing a diaper bag on one shoulder with the car seat hanging from my opposite hand, a few pieces of mail stuffed between my teeth because I’m out of available fingers, and then launching Violet headfirst toward the floor when I slip on the golf towel hanging from the side of his clubs. The police would investigate us for abuse when I take her to the hospital for a skull fracture, not knowing the real crime would be the plot against my husband I’d undoubtedly be crafting.
I told him yesterday about both requests: the cream and the clubs. I asked for five minutes of his time to ease my nerves. To save me the effort of going to the store, since he could run in without having to unbuckle and re-buckle the baby.
Now it’s 7:30pm and neither thing happened. He’ll get to it tomorrow, I’m sure. But every time I attempt to squeeze the last rations of cream onto my fingers for Violet’s scaly legs or see the green-smeared sides of his golf shoes on the floor, I’m filled with unbridled rage. They might as well be screaming at me, “I hear your needs and I don’t care.” Maybe, “My time is worth more than yours.” Like I said, rage.
