reclaiming wife

Posts Tagged ‘Baby Family’

Zen: Going Public
Planning: Journeys

A couple of weeks ago Cephas and I went together to the registrar’s office to give notice of marriage, a legal prerequisite for getting married here in England. We sat in a sunny waiting room with fuchsia sofas and flowers on the windowsills, and read the notices of marriage and civil partnerships pinned on the walls.

The notices list the couples’ respective names, dates of birth, nationalities, and occupations in the driest possible terms. Even the font is boring, but the significance of the documents invests them with a certain romance. Each notice had a story embedded in it. It was easy to see what the investment banker and his fund manager boyfriend had in common, but how did their friends and family feel about the fifteen-year age difference? The company director and accountant made a nicely synergistic couple, but you wondered how the childrenswear designer and barrister had met.

It emphasised, as well, how two people who decide to marry are thereby transformed into a unit, and how one perceives units differently from individuals. A secondary school teacher might be an asshole, as might a general practitioner, but coupled together one imagines two cuddly people who like jumpers and the countryside, and want to have a dog.

After a half-hour wait we gave notice to a nice lady with a 1950s American housewife name, who struggled with my very non-1950s-American-housewife name, and almost forgot to get me to confirm that I wasn’t related to Cephas. When she was done she shook our hands and wished us luck, and we came out of the town hall into the sunshine. Continue reading Zen: Going Public

After our exploration of imperfection so far this week, APW Associate Editor Maddie is here, to, well, hit the nail on the head. Because when we’re wedding planning, it’s so easy to convince ourselves that we’re not striving for wedding industry perfection, just emotional perfection. Or to think that when other people talk about moments of Wedding Zen or Wedding Magic, it’s because for them everything went exactly right. And what we miss in that is that it’s the gritty imperfect details in life where the magic really lives. The magic exists when things go wrong and we allow ourselves to feel however we feel—to be present in it.

Most people don’t know this, but I have a tattoo. It’s a pretty sizable one, on my back, in the shape of wings. I got it with my mother shortly after I turned twenty-one as a way to commemorate my late sister and the things my mom and I have had overcome in our relationship. I love my tattoo. It makes me feel like a badass, and once upon a time it was shaded with the colors of the rainbow (it’s a little faded these days).

I had been planning on getting a tattoo for years, so when the decision was finally made and plans were being planned, the act of getting a tattoo somehow managed to work itself into becoming something of a symbol to me. It was going to be ultimate bonding moment between my mother and me. I would have her full attention for a whole day, away from my siblings; together, as we inked our bodies in solidarity, we would break down any walls that had built up between us over the years. On this one momentous occasion, everything would be perfect. If only for a moment.

But of course, the reality of the situation was that my mother and I were going to be doing an activity together, and no matter how important, the complications of daily life were going to work their way in. I had one idea for a tattoo artist, my mom had a recommendation from a friend she wanted to check out. My dad had made the mistake of telling my younger sister that day that we were going to have to put our dog down, and she ended up calling my mom repeatedly during our bonding moment, interrupting our one-on-one time. It was still an amazing experience, but when I left, something felt off. I hadn’t gotten my perfect moment. I wanted the kind of story that you could tell to future generations, one that was unmarred by imperfections. Not to mention, this moment was literally going to follow me around forever. How could I look at a permanent marking on my body and not remember everything that went wrong?

What’s funny is, I know the tattoo itself isn’t perfect. I never expected it to be. The lines are a little rough and tattoo artist was decent, but not phenomenal and now the shading is faded so you can no longer see the rainbow. And still, I feel no guilt about the physical properties of my ink. Actually, I love every single thing about it. So why do I feel bad about the moment in which it was created? Continue reading The Devil Is (Not) In The Details

Second weddings are things fraught with so much shame and isolation that I think we can’t talk about them enough. And as if it isn’t hard enough getting married again, with everyone’s eyes on you, people have a set of expectations. Surely this time you’ll sneak away to the courthouse? Surely after a divorce you wouldn’t… celebrate? And even if no one in your life is making such eyebrow-raised comments, you may pick it up in the (horrible) cultural narrative. Which is, in short, bullshit. It’s bullshit to imply that we shouldn’t celebrate what’s ours—that we shouldn’t celebrate love, celebrate building a family and a home, celebrate being brave enough to know what we need to make ourselves happy. So here is Sally telling us why after a big white wedding, she’s having big wedding. And how, this time, it’s different.

I had a big white church wedding. I had the dress. I had the flowers. I had my dad walking me down the aisle. I also had a big failed marriage.

My fiancé also had a big wedding. And a different big failed marriage.

We met each other at about the time we both realized we were in dead and loveless marriages. We both kept our relationship something we could tell our spouses about, but deep down, if I’m totally honest with myself, I knew that he was the one I was supposed to be with. That was actually a very difficult realization for me.

We’d been through a lot together. He was the one who supported me when a close friend died. He helped me through work issues. After his marriage ended, he went through a major depression (don’t think that because you wanted the relationship to end that you’re not going to go through some hard emotional stuff) and I called the cops on him when I was sure he was going to commit suicide. I was so anxious about my divorce and how it was affecting my children (at that time they were nine and twelve years old) that I was on some heavy-duty anti-anxiety and sleep pills—just to make it through the day. Through it all, we supported each other. We also managed to reach out to each other during those times, even when we didn’t want to admit what we were to one another.

Today, both of us are (mostly) free of our demons and we’re happier than, well, than ever.

When we first started dating, we kept it quiet. As a mother, I didn’t want to introduce my girls to someone until I was absolutely positive. And, as we live in a fairly small town, both of our ex-spouses still live here. Not to mention that they started hanging out together in that horrible commiseration that fed their hatred.

As things were becoming more and more serious, and we were able to recognize how serious, we slowly introduced each other to our families. The girls were accepting, but kept him at a distance. His mom believed that I was the reason his marriage had ended. My parents were sure that I was rushing into things. It took a little time to get everyone used to the idea of “us.” Continue reading Why We’re Going Big For Our Second Wedding

*Hannah, Marketing and Publicity Intern  & David,  Law Student*

I’ve been waiting for this post for two years. No joke. Two whole years. Hannah has been reading APW since back in the very early days, and when she got married, the note she sent me about her experience so closely mirrored mine it was eery. Gorgeous pictures? Check. Day full of love? Check. Feeling of being emotionally raw and overwhelmed and Oh My God Is This Right Has Anyone Ever Felt This Way Before Am I Broken? Check, check check! So for me, this post is what no one ever told me about getting married. The thing is, the raw emotion is perfect, in it’s own way, but if it hits you, it’s nice to have a voice in the back of your head telling you, “Normal, this is normal.” So, as we explore the theme of Memory this week, coming off the US’s Memorial Day, let’s start with Hannah’s wedding, explored at two years distance.

I’ve been planning on writing this post since before I got married. I’ve been reading APW since before I met David and I assumed that after reading so many Wedding Graduates and having such reasonable non-WIC expectations. Remember my parents? I was expecting to have a nice party and go on with my life. I thought I’d be able to tell you how the Wedding Zen set in and I felt the love of my family around me and I basked in it and it was amazing.

Nothing anyone said prepared me for what it felt like to get married. I felt raw and shocked, my soul felt different and weird. I was scared. I went back to the B&B and cried myself to sleep because I felt wrenched. No one told me it was going to feel like that. I’ve seen a gazillion pictures of gorgeous glowing brides and no one told me that when your dad gave a speech and you cried it wasn’t a photo op, you were REALLY CRYING and a lot of people were looking at you crying and you were actually sad. I think it’s okay to feel raw and wretched. Marriage is a big deal. It is something to be taken seriously. I felt bad about feels scared and sad and raw and wrenched. I felt really guilty.

None of which is to say that I didn’t love our wedding. I did. It was a gorgeous wedding. When David proposed I was in my ninth month of being unemployed and within weeks my dad lost his job too. Out of economic necessity and my own long-lived devotion to make stuff I crafted and my sisters crafted, and my mother and my friends crafted.

I made the cake topper because I couldn’t afford one and because I made clothespin dolls with my mum as a child; I couldn’t afford a florist so my bridesmaids and friends and I put together made the most beautiful flowers ever; I poured candles for weeks; my maid of honor and my little sister did hours of calligraphy. We didn’t have any money but we had a lot of time and we built our wedding out of nothingness. I made flowered headbands for the flower girls and tote bags for the bridesmaids; David and I hung papel-picado and bistro lights and we swept the barn and my mother and cousin made fresh blueberry chutney and sandwiches on wedding day for us all.

I heard time and time again during wedding planning that the details don’t matter and for some couples maybe they don’t but my sister’s handwriting on my place card, my brother’s band playing, my nephew carrying the ring bowl my mother made, the bridesmaid assembled flowers everywhere, the tissue paper pom-poms hanging from the rafters, the flowered combs in my hair made by my friend who drank a box of Franzia and burnt the hell out of her fingers with a hot glue gun, these things mattered. I can’t even tell you how much they mattered. They felt like a gift and I felt wrapped in the sweetness and the love and the care that had gone into them.* It was a gorgeous wedding and I felt the love. I felt the magical love we are supposed to feel but I also felt like I had been hit by a bus. Continue reading Wedding Graduates: Hannah & David

So it turns out, when we asked you for moving posts last week, there was more this community had to say on the topic than we could possibly imagine. Which makes sense. At this point in most of our lives, we’re in a state of transition, of moving forward. Possibly literally and certainly metaphysically, we’re all in a state of moving. Which isn’t to say this week is about packing boxes. It’s not. It’s about going the distance in a whole variety of ways. So today is in two parts. First, we have a Reclaiming Wife post from Lauren McGlynn (with her adorable Texas courthouse wedding photos) about uprooting her life and her business and moving to Scotland to be with her husband. Then, this afternoon we have Lauren’s amazing Scottish wedding. So let’s dive in. This one has huge lessons for all of us.

The year that Aidan & I got married was one of the craziest years of my life. A timeline of that year goes something like this:

Me: B&B cook and aspiring wedding photographer. Him: Philosophy PhD candidate.

January: Aidan and I are engaged!

February: I photograph my first wedding and I love it.

March: People start booking me to photograph their weddings in the fall. I am thrilled.

April: Aidan and I get married in Texas.

May: Aidan and I get married in Scotland.

June: Aidan stays in Scotland while I move to North Carolina to live on my friend’s blueberry farm in the hopes of picking up some weddings so that we can have some money. I can’t legally work in Scotland and he can’t legally work in the States during the summers.

July: Aidan and I talk on the computer a lot. I photograph more weddings in North Carolina.

August: After two months, neither of us can stand being apart anymore, so Aidan flies to the farm, decides that he can not stand the heat, nor the insects, nor the lack of air conditioning (he is a delicate Scottish flower after all), so we drive back to Texas where it is hotter but there is AC.

September-October: I photograph lots of weddings.

November: I am laid off from my job. My new husband, still living on mere grad student salary, tells me not to look for another job, that I better make this photography thing work. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, I marvel over my good fortune at marrying such a person. I dump more money than I have ever spent on anything into advertising.

December: I start booking weddings like a crazy person.

January: Aidan is offered a Philosophy post doc… in Scotland.

Did you hear that? That record scratch? Is your neck tingling in sympathetic whiplash? Because what’s happening here is that both of our dreams are coming true—ON SEPARATE CONTINENTS.

When I met Aidan he was still a PhD student, and I had recently dropped out of grad school to work at a grocery store. I usually like to dress that up a little to make it sound more respectable by adding that it was a small neighborhood grocery store and that they sold lots of organic cereal and stuff. But whatever: When I met Aidan I was making seven dollars and hour working a mindless job at a lame grocery store. When Aidan finally came through my line, the first thing I did was add “Scottish accent” to the top of my list of sexy man things. After a few months of getting to know each other over brief one-to-three minute checkout line interactions we went out on a date.

A few months later we had a conversation where I asked him how serious he was feeling about our relationship. He made some very serious noises, but then he told me that the future of our relationship depended on me being willing to move wherever he got a job. That might be Canada, that might be the UK, that might be the middle of nowhere Alabama. At the time my career had progressed from grocery store clerk to chopping down trees with a chainsaw then dragging them through a chigger infested desert field as an Americorps volunteer, so I was like: Yeah sure, sounds good to me. Continue reading Reclaiming Wife: Big Risks for Big Rewards

This post from Kristine is about not getting pregnant and deciding… that… was ok. This post made me feel drawn into a huge and warm hug. Not because infertility is easy (it’s decidedly not). But because there is very little cultural narrative that tells us that it’s ok to not have kids once we start down the kids road. Or that it’s ok to throw in the towel on getting pregnant (for awhile or forever). Or, really, that it’s ok to BE OK in the midst of really hard stuff. It’s really important for me personally, to know that it’s fine if it’s really hard, and it’s fine if it’s… fine. Or that both can coexist at once, the pain and the healing. So here is Kristine on changing plans and on deciding not to have kids (for now). 

When Steve and I got married six months ago, we immediately hopped on the baby-making bandwagon. At forty (him) and thirty-one (me), we were feeling a little crunched for time, especially because our “plan” involved two or three little ones. With a congenital endocrine disorder, I knew that our chances of avoiding trouble-free conception and pregnancy experiences were slim anyway. We both love kids and we both wanted to be parents. Badly. So we threw away the birth control two weeks before our wedding and dove in headfirst. We called it “not avoiding,” but who were we kidding? We wanted to make a baby.

The idea of creating life made our intimate moments deeper (and interestingly, hotter). We were baby-making machines and it excited us both in new ways.

Then something happened. We didn’t get pregnant.

Six months of planning, and expecting and hoping and timing and charting cycles, and nothing happened. I was in the midst of my final semester of graduate school and Steve was feeling professionally stuck. I’m sure my body was raging with cortisol, which made it a hostile environment for any fertilized egg that dared enter my uterus. I had gained more weight than I care to discuss, and I knew deep down that getting pregnant at this time was unhealthy for me and very unhealthy for any baby. Continue reading Why We Changed Our Minds About Babies (For Now)