You’re probably wondering why there was a puddle in the bed in the first place yesterday. After all, a disagreement about wanting kids could well end up in a very dry place. Someone sleeping on the sofa. Someone not sleeping at all.
That’s exactly why I’ve written every day for a few days now. Notice how I keep referring to hearing Wonderboy’s heavy breathing? That’s because I’m awake, on the sofa, with my laptop, and he’s asleep.
It’s been a long and challenging conversation. I don’t think I’ve ever had a discussion that lasted for over a month before. Now I have. From the first sign of trouble to this day it’s been almost a month and a half. And for the first week of it I was totally alone. He’d finally let out the truth that he’d been hiding for the longest time, and I guess he was relieved. It was like a honeymoon in the old days, he was so horny and extatic. But I was in a shock. We were on the opposite ends of the emotional-sexual slide. I was resentful, fragile, questioning and he was all happy happy, joy joy. Like he could suddenly tell me he didn’t want kids after all, and I’d be all Well, allright then. We had miscommunicated like we were two highschoolers, expecting the other one to get the drift.
I don’t know about you (guys, girls, in the middles or betweens) but for me discussing the prospect of reproducing is like the UFC of parnership. If I win, I’m still scared shitless and scarred. I’m just saying that I realize I will not be happy if I don’t try to fill my corporeal potential. It’s there, after all, for a reason. I’ve been noticing it with more and more matter of factly. It’s coming closer like the championships. I know it’s coming, even if I haven’t sent an application to participate yet.
But what is he saying?
It wasn’t clear to me even a few days ago. And then. Finally. He said it.
If I don’t give you babies, you’ll find someone else who will.
It wasn’t even a question. He was sure. And he didn’t mean, like I did, that if he never ever will say yes we probably won’t last, he believed that I would dumb him now. If he doesn’t immidietly start working for the baby-goal.
How can he think so little of me? Where is the trust?
Once again it is all my fault. Because with Wonderboy, he takes everything literally. But I hadn’t really understood it until now. So, when I said I want us to start trying for a baby, he heard we have to start making babies now or I’ll dumb your frigid ass. I can see how that sort of ultimatum could sound a little… frightening.
My mind on the other hand is entangled with the spring and autumn of 2014 at this point. My work schedule is already made for the most part. And I’m thinking By Science, I’ll be 33 then! And we haven’t even settled on a date to start trying. (I can’t help it if I like boundaries! They give my otherwise chaotic life some structure.) So, I wanted a date, or even a yes, soon. But he wouldn’t give it to me. He started talking about my work situation, saving for a house, working working working for years and years. And all I heard was no, no, no. Not ever.
You’d wonder if we really live under the same roof, but there really is no other matter that will so utterly change our lives, that is so important that it is the only thing I can think of that could separate us. The one matter where it’s impossible to just compromise.
It’s like a pain that won’t go away. A nagging, pulsing, shattering feeling in my gut. That I need to hold my own baby, feed hir, teach hir, be with and shelter and provide for hir. And I want to do it with Wonderboy.
But when I realized what kind of stress Wonderboy was trying to make his decisions under, I knew I had to make a compromise. Even if my body wants it now, I really want to have some sort of financial security before we make the plunge. I don’t want to force him to stay in the job he has now that isn’t what he wants to do so he could provide for us. And I have to add that I am not expecting to be provided for, at all. That is his own weird and twisted mindset. But I do expect him to also stay home and care for the child. That might prove even more demanding.
So, I made a promise. I would try to get a conventional job, a job of any kind, not related to my studies or my field of expertise. (It’s been pretty hard now because of the economical climate, you know. My field of Culture&Languages is the one suffering the most. I’ve been working freelancer and for little to no pay for a year now.) And I would hold it for as long as necessary to save up for a bigger apartment – an apartment that could well be in the far suburbs but that could work for tree – not two. After that he would be willing to start trying.
And that was that. Then we had sex like little weird BDSM bunnies and worked on getting the mattresses wet so I could write about female ejaculation and the very powerful image of cleanliness that we associate with women. The month of discussion was finally over.
Or so I thought.