My parents had been married for sixty-six years by the time my mom died. She loved to tell me that she would never divorce my father. “One day, though,” she’d add. “I will kill him.” (She’d be holding a frying pan over my poor dad’s bald head when she said that, but she did not orchestrate his demise.) Patrick and I have been hitched for “only” twenty-eight years. We’ve endured some heartbreak, especially my infertility. We’ve moved around the world, living on four continents, which had its moments of glamour but also of bewilderment. We’ve experienced disappointment like every human I know. We do believe that partnerships take work and we believe in “doing the work.” That’s included recognizing the pattern we jump into at the least provocation. Once our particular marital dance music starts, we’re no longer really in the room as conscious adults: our avatars have taken over. One of us mopes and the other storms angrily out of the room (c’est moi.) Over the years, we’ve learned that things will get better between us if we hit “pause,” agree to re-address the issue later, and remind ourselves that we’re in this together (although we may hate one another in the moment.) The sun will come out again – if we hang in there (and gently set down the frying pan.)
Patrick and Margaret
