Brown or Green?

Like two tween best friends, my husband and I stand in front of the mirror and the light. “Do these pants go better with my shirt?” he asks. I immediately notice two things: first, we’re actually dressed kind of the same, as same as men’s and women’s clothes get. He: brown and black nice knit sweater, brown pants, black shoes. Me: brown knit top, black skirt, brown/black leggings. The next thing I see: his pair of brown pants? “These are green pants,” he says. He argues with me. He tries to convince. I say sometimes people see things differently, and actually, that’s ok. Please don’t try to make me believe they are green. Because they are brown.

This is a microcosm of our marriage. Seemingly the same/similar, in sync and spooning, then we open our eyes and realize just how differently we see things. And honestly, there’s NO convincing him that the world may not be the way he sees it.

Like one of the core arguments couples have over and over during the course of their lives, this is one we keep dealing with. We're getting better at seeing each other's point of view. But it's our desire to control that gets our goat, even when it’s something as simple as deciding about green onions or shallots in the clams linguini tonight.

Really, I’m just trying to help, aren’t I? If your husband announced he wanted to make clams tomorrow, wouldn’t you happily jump on the shellfish bandwagon, resurrect that great Giada recipe, and offer to get the pasta, parsley and accoutrements while he goes to Aliotos for (too many pounds of) clams? Then it happens, the argument over shallots vs. green onions. Really I don’t care, and the grocery list says so, in plain English: GREEN ONIONS. He slams the door, leaving a stormy kitchen behind.  I ask myself the big question: will we ever grow up (and stay that way?)

So here’s what’s going on, and sorry I haven’t written in so long. 

I’m still trying to let go of the last embryos. The doc basically, quietly, gently, hinted that we should look at other options: adoption or child-free living. But I haven’t said the words yet, and checked the box on the paper that says “we ask that these embryos be destroyed”. It’s that word: destroyed. As if there hasn’t been enough destruction around all this!  I’ll let you know.