My husband and I started talking divorce at my friend Sara’s wedding. It was May in the Hamptons. Standing before the crashing Atlantic in her strapless gown, my friend looked vulnerable yet serene, as if she knew this man would always hold back the tide. Sara’s bridegroom read his vows, shivering a little as he promised to always listen, to make her goals his goals, to constantly improve his mind to remain interesting to her.
I sat on a folding chair, huddled under my husband’s suit jacket, looking from the marrying couple to the man I had married. We didn’t write our own vows, but if we had, my husband wouldn’t have made those promises.
I wasn’t really comparing my marriage to my friends’ wedding. A wedding is the cherry atop the dreamy early days. Marriage combined with work and parenthood can be a romance-eroding machine, especially if you have a rambunctious toddler who climbs every refrigerator, parking meter and child-safety gate he sees.
I was comparing the gap between what my husband and I want from marriage and the compatibility of my friends’ expectations. Because having a shared vision for marriage does matter.
After the ceremony, I slumped against one of the dunes along the shore. My husband sat down next to me. “You know,” I said, kicking off my sandals and staring toward the distant sun. “What are we doing? Why are we still doing this?”
He gazed toward the water. He wasn’t expecting me to suggest divorce during our romantic wedding weekend, but he wasn’t shocked, either.
We had been discussing our incompatibilities for years. We met at a book party in 2000 and were immediately attracted to each other and to certain aspects of each other’s personality. But while I yearn for a deeply united, soul-mate-style connection, he wants something looser, more independent, less enmeshed.
This difference created friction almost immediately; still, we wanted our romance to last. We took a Calvinist approach to our union, as if “hard work” could yield a better match. Or he did. I was probably channeling the sculptor Rodin. As if by constantly chipping away at each other, we would reveal an edifice of perfect love. Other times, I felt we were erecting a scaffolding of a life — beautiful home, nice parties — and hoping the snug interior would fill itself in.
My husband is a good person: hard-working, committed to social justice. But I’ve come to a startling truth about myself: I might be happier with a less ambitious partner, someone less focused on his career and curing the ills of the world and more focused on me, actually, and the piddling details of our family life.
We rose from the sand and shuffled to the reception. The next day, driving around the North Fork, my husband said: “I met a guy last night with a great custody arrangement. He takes his daughter to school and plays with her afterward until the mom gets home. It made me feel hopeful.”
I looked at him, driving responsibly, hands at 10 and 2, as always. I felt hopeful, too. I want my husband in my life, and certainly in our son’s. But I did not see why this meant we had to remain married.
by Wendy Paris, NY Times | Read more:
Illustration: Brian Rea
I sat on a folding chair, huddled under my husband’s suit jacket, looking from the marrying couple to the man I had married. We didn’t write our own vows, but if we had, my husband wouldn’t have made those promises. I wasn’t really comparing my marriage to my friends’ wedding. A wedding is the cherry atop the dreamy early days. Marriage combined with work and parenthood can be a romance-eroding machine, especially if you have a rambunctious toddler who climbs every refrigerator, parking meter and child-safety gate he sees.
I was comparing the gap between what my husband and I want from marriage and the compatibility of my friends’ expectations. Because having a shared vision for marriage does matter.
After the ceremony, I slumped against one of the dunes along the shore. My husband sat down next to me. “You know,” I said, kicking off my sandals and staring toward the distant sun. “What are we doing? Why are we still doing this?”
He gazed toward the water. He wasn’t expecting me to suggest divorce during our romantic wedding weekend, but he wasn’t shocked, either.
We had been discussing our incompatibilities for years. We met at a book party in 2000 and were immediately attracted to each other and to certain aspects of each other’s personality. But while I yearn for a deeply united, soul-mate-style connection, he wants something looser, more independent, less enmeshed.
This difference created friction almost immediately; still, we wanted our romance to last. We took a Calvinist approach to our union, as if “hard work” could yield a better match. Or he did. I was probably channeling the sculptor Rodin. As if by constantly chipping away at each other, we would reveal an edifice of perfect love. Other times, I felt we were erecting a scaffolding of a life — beautiful home, nice parties — and hoping the snug interior would fill itself in.
My husband is a good person: hard-working, committed to social justice. But I’ve come to a startling truth about myself: I might be happier with a less ambitious partner, someone less focused on his career and curing the ills of the world and more focused on me, actually, and the piddling details of our family life.
We rose from the sand and shuffled to the reception. The next day, driving around the North Fork, my husband said: “I met a guy last night with a great custody arrangement. He takes his daughter to school and plays with her afterward until the mom gets home. It made me feel hopeful.”
I looked at him, driving responsibly, hands at 10 and 2, as always. I felt hopeful, too. I want my husband in my life, and certainly in our son’s. But I did not see why this meant we had to remain married.
by Wendy Paris, NY Times | Read more:
Illustration: Brian Rea
