Kitchen Mom

Some days the writing just flows. Other days– it's more like trying to open the thick plastic they use to package batteries. Today is the latter.

Bad for me, good for YOU, dear reader. Because instead of forcing something onto the page... I've decided to share a rough draft of a future chapter (the beginnings of it anyway).

Please do, let me know what you think of it.

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I was standing at the stove, stirring the tortellini. One pan tortellini with sausage had become one of my favorite meals to make. For starters, it required only one pan and we didn’t have a dishwasher. Perhaps even more important though was that it broke up the monotony of preparing and eating the same types of meals day after day.

Recently there was a trend going around the internet asking if you had a living room or a bedroom mom. I grew up with a living room mom. She could most often be found in the living room with my father watching tv. If Dad was out of town, she reverted to her VHS tapes; all of her favorite Harrison Ford movies. Give that lady a sampler box of Whitmans’s chocolate and Sabrina playing on our 19” Sony and call it a party.

My childhood best friend grew up with a bedroom mom. She could most often be found laying down with a headache. Waiting for the meds to kick in. Or resting before going out for the night. Her bedroom curtains were always closed and she would summon someone to bring her a soda or a snack when she was feeling up to it.

I was neither a bedroom or a living room mom. I could be found in the kitchen pretty much all hours of the day. If I wasn’t cooking, I was cleaning up from the previous meal. The dishes never seemed to be done. And the tiny counter only allowed for a small dish rack, forcing me to do the dishes in waves, rather than all at once. I would wash as many as I could, then towel dry them and put them away before I could finish. It was a tedious task that I made bearable with audiobooks and podcasts.

When Matt came home from work that day, I had no intentions on asking for a divorce. That’s not to say I wasn’t considering a divorce. If I am honest, I’d been considering it the better part of our marriage. Had told him as much less than 2 years after we had tied the knot. Since then it had come up many times again. I didn’t mean it as a vague threat. Some people toss the word around just to feel like they have the upper hand again. I never used it as a weapon, or at least not intentionally. I would mention it the way someone might suggest a vacation spot. More of a, “I think maybe we would both be happier if…”

This always turned into a narcissistic display of hurt feelings.

“I guess I’m just the worst father and husband! You would all be better off without me.”

Sometimes this took on the variation that he could move out or that he should kill himself. You see it was always an all or nothing kind of relationship. That’s true on both our parts. But, I hadn’t reached the level of threatening suicide. I had the children to think of. I was their mother first and foremost. Insecure husbands can actually become jealous of their own children. It’s true. It’s also a topic for another chapter.

When Matt got home from work that night he joined me in the kitchen. It wasn’t a first, but it was certainly out of the norm. I suspected he wanted to vent about his day or ask about making weekend plans for himself. Instead, he sat down and declared that he had given it some thought, and maybe we ought to move after all…

I felt all of the air leave my lungs. Now? Now he wants to save me? Except, he didn’t. He had no intention on following through with this. It was just another tactic to keep me on the hook. Always the promise of something better.

I’ll never know what prompted this. I assume I had given some non-verbal cues or that my energy had shifted in such a way that he finally noticed. This was a last ditch effort on his part. Throwing me a lifeline.

I guess you can only use that same line so many times because something in me just broke. No, we will not be moving. I don’t trust you. I cannot continue to do this. I want a divorce. He could not have looked more stunned than if I had hauled off and hit him.

I didn’t raise my voice. But, every thought came tumbling out of my mouth faster than I could form words. He tried to interject. Tried to convince me. But, I couldn’t hear him. I was done. My hands were shaking. The adrenaline from just declaring our marriage over. Just like that.

I told him I was going for a drive. Grabbed the keys. Turned off my location and started driving. My hands were shaking and my breath was caught high in my chest. Did that really just happen? I pulled over. Trying to shake myself out of the shock. I’ve imagined saying those words for so long. Imagined reclaiming my freedom. But, honestly, I never thought I’d actually say them out loud. And mean it. Damn did I mean it.

I put the van in drive and headed towards my future.