Reflection on a Quote

Believe it or not, I saw this Sunday's Quotable Sunday quote on one of The Kid's video games. Every time his character died, a quote flashed on the screen while the game loaded. Most of the quotes were about war and fighting, but this one struck close to home.
You see, I've been struggling quite a bit since we got married. I have come to realize that most newlyweds who act as if life is bliss from the moment they say "I do" are merely incredible actors.
The first arguments, for me, have been far worse than the arguments we had as a dating, co-habitating couple. I feel trapped when we argue about money, the Ex, the Kid, the dog etc. etc. etc. I ask myself, "What have I done?" "Why did I do this?" and "So this is my life?" all the time. I've driven myself to tears wondering if I've settled, if I could do better, if this is how I want to live. (I know, it sounds terrible to put it in writing, but it's the truth.)
As I question my life decisions, I've noticed that I am especially hard on my husband. I am not supportive of what he does (often because I find it does not meet my expectations) and I'm not encouraging of what he tries to do. He can feel my doubts in the tone of my voice when we argue, and sometimes even when we just talk. When I married him, I knew he had an unpleasant ex-wife situation. I knew he had an almost-teenage son. I knew he is financially immature, has tens of thousands of dollars of debt, leaves our bedroom looking like a laundry bomb exploded.
But nobody has ever looked at me the way he looks at me, and I'm quite sure no one ever could.
When I saw this quote, I realized just what I was doing to myself to and our relationship. By questioning my decisions, I am instilling fear (of insufficiency, of failure, of loss) in my husband. I am compounding the doubts every married person feels. I am not helping our relationship to grow.
I do love my husband. I am proud of my family. This is my life and this is how I want to live.
I chose this man, and this life, full-well knowing what he was made of. And I'd do well to stand by him (waving my second wife and stepmom flags all the while!).

My Wedding Rings

There's been a considerable amount of stress in my own personal stepmomville lately. Nothing I can blog about, yet. Anyhoo, in the down time I have found myself twisting my wedding ring round and round. And it got me thinking about my wedding rings.
Last year, at about this time, The Husband and I went on a mini-vacation. As we were driving through one little town, we saw an antique shop and decided to check it out. I found a musical beer stein (!) and decided to buy it. As I was checking out, I noticed a small case of vintage jewelry. Now, I don't wear jewelry, ever. Well, I do wear a few earrings but they are the plain old surgical steel hoops I was pierced with years ago. Rings? Nope. Necklaces? Naah. Bracelets? For the birds!
But this one ring caught my eye. Two small emeralds, flanked by diamond chips, circa 1940. I asked the shop owner if I could see it. I held it up in the sunlight and the emeralds, though not high quality by any means, glowed an intense shade of green. The two emeralds sit next to each other, but not exactly side by side. The (then-boyfriend) Husband walked over to see what I was doing. I showed him the ring, and he encouraged me to try it on. I was a bit resistant, but he insisted and eventually just grabbed the damn thing and slid it onto my finger. It fit perfectly, and so it became mine.
At this point, we had already planned on getting married. The Husband didn't "ask" me to marry him, because that whole idea goes against my feminist principles. We discussed getting married and decided that, on our life path, it was a good choice . I always said I didn't want an engagement ring; however, something called me to this ring and from the moment it was on my finger I knew I had to have it. I like to imagine it belonged to some inspiring woman whose wisdom is passed on to me when I wear it.
My actual wedding ring is my grandfather's. I've written before about some of the crazy dynamics of my family. My grandfather is not my dad's biodad. He married my grandmother and adopted my dad when my father was eight. My dad sorta hated him, but also loved him, until the day he died.
And from the day my family met my husband, they were comparing us to my grandparents, whose marriage was dysfunctionally blissful. Their rings have their initials and their wedding date inscribed inside (which I'm sure will confuse the hell outta The Husband when he forgets our anniversary!) - DLV to JOF 10-19-63. My grandmother, a divorced woman with a son, gave this ring to my grandfather, a single WWII vet, nearly 46 years before my husband, a divorced man with a son, gave this ring to me. They were married for over thirty years before my grandmother died, prematurely, of pancreatic cancer in their home. Pop never really got over the loss.
After my grandmother died, my grandfather took off his wedding ring, joined it to hers with a red twist-tie and hid them in his sock drawer. I found them 14 years later, upon his death, just as he left them. I gave my grandmother's ring to my brother, whom Grandma, on her deathbed, requested receive the ring. I gave Grandma's diamond to my mother, who always wanted a diamond of her own. And I put Papa's ring in my jewelry box for safekeeping.
After we had set a date for our nuptials, we decided Papa's ring was perfect for my wedding ring. I brought it to our local jeweler and had it polished and resized for my ring finger. On our wedding day my husband slid it onto my finger and there it remains until it is faithfully twist-tied to it's mate some day long down the line.

I am super Type A in many ways, with my need for lists and routine and every thing in it's right place. I dig symmetry, love order and NEED things to fit together. So you can imagine that doing this whole stepfamily thing throws me for a wobbly on a daily basis. Likewise, my rings don't stack neatly on top of each other on my finger. They are not sautered together (I do several sports and need to remove the emerald ring often). They twist and turn and sometimes the damn emeralds stab me. This annoys the crap out of me, until I take a moment to look at my rings. The cool green of the emeralds calms me and, as they catch the light, I smile. I look at my wedding band and remember the love of my grandparents, a love I could physically feel when I was in the room with them.
I remember that not everything has to fit together perfectly to be wonderful.
From these two rings, recycled with a purpose, I gain resolve to stick to my vows and to make this marriage fulfilling for both of us, forever. The legacy of my grandparents gives me wisdom and strength, in marriage and, particularly in a second marriage.

A Changed Woman

I did it. I changed my name. I am officially Mrs. X.

It was so easy, almost too easy. I probably could've changed it to Captain Crankybutt without a hitch.

I did have a little twinge after it was all said and done. I'll miss having the same last name as my sisters, but they'll likely change their last names upon marriage too. I did think about how I'm not the first Mrs. X. But I reminded myself that I am the only Mrs. X.

This was a surprise to The Husband. The look on his face when he realized I took his name was priceless. It made him so happy, and that made me happy.

So I will rest comfortably knowing that yesterday was just a crappy day, not the Universe sending me warnings. All is right...for now.

The Name Game

I went to change my name today.

This is a ritual? rite? tradition? I have been grappling with since we started talking about this whole marriage thing.

Firmly believing that everything happens for a reason, today's events leave me caught in a whirlwind of - you guessed it - doubt.

Not about the marriage. Been there, done that, glad I did it. About changing my name.

I left the office, headed to City Hall, filled out the little pink form requesting a copy of my marriage certificate. I get helped by the only nice person who works the City Clerk's office. Seems like a good day. Until he asks for my license and I realize I've forgotten my wallet (and cell phone and, well, everything) at work. Which I never do.

"Shit. I'll be right back."

"No problem, but I won't be here when you get back.," says the only nice person who works in the City Clerk's office.

Damn. This task is getting less appealing by the minute.

Return 30 minutes later. Get copies of marriage certificate from one of the many cranky people at the City Clerk's office. Head to Social Security Administration, wondering all the while, "Should I take my maiden name as my middle name? Will I miss my middle name if I do that?" etc.

Park. Enter building. Climb stairs. Reach Social Security office. Reach for doorknob with trembling hand. Door opens.

"Closed. Come back tomorrow!" Door slams, in a very Wizard of Oz-like way. The office closes at 4. It's 3:59.

Damn.

Now I'm left to wonder, is this fate or "one of those days"? Is this the Universe trying to tell me something or is this just the result of my own carelessness?

I'll let you know tomorrow...

What's In A Name?

It's a loaded question: change my name or remain the same?

In my early twenties, I said (after "I will never get married!") that I would never change my name. After all, my degrees have my birth name on them.

After my grandfather died, I reiterated that I would never change my name. It is his connection to our convoluted family. My grandfather adopted my father when he married my grandmother. They never had any other children. His name lives through us.

Then I met the man I'm going to marry in two weeks. And for the first four years we dated, I maintained my convictions. It was when we started seriously talking about marriage that I felt my previous inclinations begin to shift.

His family has just as convoluted a past as mine does. His name is tremendously important to him. He's already seen his first child stripped of that name. He has no one to share that familial pride with. No one to carry on his name.

I would love for us to form a new, strong family identity under his name. It means so much to him that I take his name.

But.

Someone has already taken it before me. She was the first Mrs. X. And that is the biggest reason why I am struggling with what to do. It's just another reminder that I am The Second Wife.

She's already reverted to her maiden name so it's not like there would be two Mrs. X's wandering around town. But, on a purely selfish level, it irks me that for a time, however brief, she used to be Mrs. X. That she identifies with it. That she might respond to it.

I think I'm jealous!

I will likely legally change my name. I will likely continue to go by my given name. I'm sure things will gradually shift as we build our life together. I will begin to get more and more mail addressed to Mrs. X rather than Ms. Y.

Maybe a gradual shift is what we all need.

T Minus 20-Days

With twenty days until my wedding day, I find myself deluged with anxiety. I never was the starry-eyed wedding planning type, but somehow marrying a divorcee was never part of my "plan." As I sit here, wondering what the eff I'm getting myself into I can't seem to focus on any of the good stuff. I'm writhing in self-pity, feeling like the silver medalist. The dreaded Second Wife. The proverbial Evil Stepmom.

But what of the stuff that made me choose this guy in the first place?

What's a girl to do?

Chug a couple of Guinness and begin writing my wedding vows, that's what.

First sentence: " I ____________ marry you ____________ with my eyes wide open."

*Ding.*

Time to start a blog.

This Second Wife/Evil Stepmom gig ain't gonna be easy. Might as well enlist the virtual support of the inter-web.

Ahh, the glory of technology.

Welcome to Eyes Wide Open. My little contribution to taking up space on the web. It may be narcissistic, it may be bitter, it may be laced with profanity and it may be dripping with Irish stout. But gosh darnit, it's mine.