I want to have a family. It might have something to do with the fact that I put up my Christmas tree yesterday — marking the fifth Christmas since I have spoken with my family of origin.
I want to make a family, and I am fearful, anxious that the man I have chosen to make my family with, isn’t cut out for the job. I’ve been keeping this a close secret. Breathing its frigid words to only my counselor (our marital counselor), who confirmed my absolute worst fears: “He may not be able to be the man he wants to be.”
Where does that put me? I support a thirty year old man who has to make a bubble chart before he can do the dishes or take out the dog or answer whether Thursday night is a good night to have dinner with friends. I love him: truly, madly, deeply. I like spending time with him, when he isn’t consumed by his laptop or the guilt over the work he has not completed.
I’m not perfect. I’m not even a joy to live with, but I don’t struggle with the same types of elemental tasks that he does. For instance, he is paid once a month, after he turns in his billable hours. That’s the life of a law clerk. However, not once (NOT ONCE!) has he been able to turn in his hours on time, thus leaving our household in the lurch. Part of me thinks, just start budgeting his contribution on the 15th, instead of the 5th. But the other, more indignant part of my brain, wonders why he gets all the breaks.
I will not have a child on my own. I think it’s dangerous and not particularly responsible. Which means, as I am one month away from turning 30, that I need to determine if my husband, the man that I love, can handle having a family or if I need to cut bait and start searching for a more responsible mate.
So there I am, bitchin’ and hopin’ that what I need will make itself known. Soon.