I can handle my own needs. I’ve got Ranger, Barrons, Lo, and a few of their friends in my drawer. They’re a lot more reliable than him, and it’s not like we’ve been exactly romantic lately, anyway. What would I even be missing?
The thought of losing my sex life altogether is pretty depressing, but the thought of my husband wanting someone else causes me actual physical repulsion. Not to mention, indignance.
Does he even realize how often I get hit on? That there are other guys out there who do want me? At Target, the gas station, when I get my weekly fresh-squeezed veggie juice, I must get hit on at least three times a week.
An honest-to-God scoff leaves my mouth, and I realize I sound bratty, but I don’t even care. For fuck’s sake, even picking the kids up from school, I get looks from some of the single dads. They’re tactful enough not to openly hit on me in front of their own offspring, but their eyes say enough.
Just becausehewants to be sticking it to a twenty-year-old doesn’t mean there aren’t men out there who would appreciate what I still have to offer.
Honestly, flirty looks or pickup lines from random, horny men isn’t something I generally give any weight to, but I can’t help the awful thoughts that are running through my head nonstop.
How can so many other men see me as desirable, yet my ownhusbanddoesn’t? It’s like the more I think about it, the madder I get, and the more fucked up my stream-of-consciousness gets.
I guess I should warn you: I don’t have a mental filter, if you can’t tell.
One thought, darker than the rest, starts plaguing me, shadowing everything in my vicinity with self-doubt. Why am I sticking around if he doesn’t even want me?
I physically shake my head, trying to clear it and put those increasingly bitter thoughts away, tucking them inside a box deep within, that place where I shove all that shit I can’t focus on while also being a good mom, and I force the corners of my mouth into a smile before going into the kids’ rooms to wake them up and start their day with a mother’s love. That is one thing that will never change, no matter what life brings.
* * *
Chance standsat the gravesite in his black sports jacket over a white tee, looking down at the kids who are lined up in front of him, oldest to youngest: Brad, Ford, Preston, and Eleanor. He doesn’t wear a suit almost anywhere these days, so despite the somber setting, and my recent feelings toward him, I still appreciate the rare opportunity to see him in formal wear. Or, you know, part of it, anyway.
The black in his suit jacket and the bright remaining daylight are really bringing out all the emerging grays in his short, nearly buzzed light brown hair, and with my current mindset toward him, it pains me to notice how well he is aging. His tan skin offsets that still-full head of rapidly graying hair, and his deep blue eyes crinkle at the sides in the light of golden hour as he shifts his gaze to look down at the open grave on the ground, a serious look on his face.
Even with the solemnity of the occasion, I find myself staring at him, wondering what happened to cause this divide.
How can two people who love each other, who have been attracted to one another for so many years, and who have built a beautiful life together feel so far apart when they’re still standing right next to each other?
I lock up my own heartbreak in the wake of last night’s revelations for what must be the fourteenth time today and focus on our children and the social ritual we are here to adhere to: teaching them about the circle of life, processing grief, and saying our final goodbyes.
A friend of mine back in cosmetology school used to tell me two pretty people don’t necessarily make pretty babies. What makes beautiful children is having drastically different genes between the parents. I don’t know whether or not she was right, scientifically speaking (I’m no anthropologist or whatever), but in our case, it seemed to have worked in our favor. Our kids are the kind of blessed in the looks department that I’ve since believed you can only get by spreading the gene pool far and wide. And spread, we did.
With Chance’s Eastern European heritage, and my mixed Hispanic one, they have each inherited some of his rugged features, without the imperfections that add character to his handsome, aging face. Those rough-hewn elements are balanced out with some of my softness, and they were each graced with the deeper skin tone and the full, dark hair from my side (except Ford, our eight-year-old, who has a sandy blonde mop, more like his dad did when he was young). The juxtaposition is nothing short of stunning, in my opinion, but I might beslightlybiased.
Perhaps they have some of the other fire I bring to the gene pool, too. Bradshaw definitely does. He usually reacts before he thinks, just like his mama. We can already tell his fists are going to be his first line of defense when he gets a little older, and we are working to mitigate that early on. Stanford, aka Ford, is more of a deep thinker, but the two of them still get along, for the most part, and that’s despite sharing a bedroom. Preston is as sweet and thoughtful as his dad, but he is a total mama’s boy.
And yes, all three of our boys are named after Sex and the City characters, if you were wondering. It’s been my favorite show since I was a teenager, and I’m thankful Chance let me run with that theme when it came time to name them.
Truthfully, I don’t think he would’ve said no to naming our firstborn DJ Jazzy Jeff if it’s what I wanted after he saw what I went through in labor and delivery.
I’ll never forget the look on his face that day. It was the first day he called me Diana, or Di for short, and he’s almost never called me anything else since that day. It drove me nuts for a while, especially because he’s never even explained the stupid nickname. He just gave me a smirk or a wink every time I asked about it, until I finally just stopped asking. I imagine it’s his way of calling me his princess, but I’ve more or less come to accept that I’ll never know for sure.
And Eleanor, little Lea, well, she’s the last child we’ll ever have (snip, snip buddy) and our only girl, so she might be slightly spoiled by her parents, but especially by her daddy. Her big brothers are sweet with her, too, and it gives me the warm and fuzzies every time I think about her having the three of them to look out for her throughout her life.
All six of us stare down at the freshly dug grave at our feet, and Eleanor reaches out to grab her dad’s hand. I see a tear slip out of Preston’s eye, and before I can jump in, Chance beats me to it.
“P, what’s going through your head, little man?”
“I killed him,” he says, looking at the ground, fidgeting in place uncomfortably. “It was an accident, but I killed him.” He sounds truly responsible for this tragedy. A heavy load for a four-year-old.
I come up behind him and wrap my right arm around his small frame, holding Ford close with my other arm.
“Buddy, that battery didn’t kill Topanga. It was just his time to go. He had a good life, and we’ll remember the three days we shared with him, won’t we?” Chance assures him.
Each of the boys nods; Ford quickly, Brad a little less enthusiastically, and Preston raises his head just once in affirmation. Eleanor hardly moves. At two-and-a-half, she is still too young to understand what’s going on, but she wants to fit in with her brothers, so she stands next to them stoically, like she gets it.
“Come on, let’s pour one out for our lost homie, and give him a proper sendoff. Then we can go have some ice cream and share our favorite memories with him. How’s that sound?” Chance offers, and I try not to laugh out loud.
