Empty Arms

Finished reading a sweet book, chick lit, that of course ended happily with the protagonist getting her man. The last part is of her going into labor and the husband running around grabbing things they need to bring to the hospital, finally carrying her out to the car. I quite enjoyed the book, but it reminded me of my own pregnancy.

When I told my husband that I was pregnant, there were no joyful kisses or hugs. I suppose he was happy about it eventually. When I went into labor, he went to the office and told me to call him. Oh, I called him a lot--finally demanded that he get home. When we went to leave for the hospital, I had to open the gate for him to pull out, close it, and padlock it before getting back into the van.

I ended up having a C-section which annoyed/upset him, so he was sullen for the whole time I was in the hospital because we had the money for a natural birth but not surgery. I stayed in a C class room that had about ten women there for various female surgeries, so there was little privacy.

It was pretty much the same deal with my son's birth. That one was much more difficult than the first and also ended up being a C section. After surgery, I remember lying in bed at night needing to get up to go to the restroom, afraid to wake him up because he was so grumpy--he hated being woke up. Every time the baby cried in the night, X would get mad.

I'm not telling it well, but basically it struck me again at how much I have short changed myself. Those momentous occasions in my life were ridiculous shadows of what they might have been had I married someone who loved me, couldn't live without me, wanted to marry me.

There was no proposal, no wedding, no flowers, hearts, warm fuzzy feelings. There was only us at the courthouse wedding chapel above the motel being married by a stranger witnessed by the maid from the motel downstairs with a marriage certificate and a ring supplied by me. X always made sure I knew that those "vows" were meaningless because his fingers were crossed. To him, marrying me meant a status. To me... well I had my little dreams.

According to him, he treated me very poorly in the beginning so that I wouldn't get too attached to him. In bed, we were always good though. Outside of it, I tried to be the best wife I could. When we moved into our first home, I spent hours and hours unpacking out things, arranging them, shampooing the carpets, making it seem like a home. His only response was that I had left dirty dishes in the sink. I'd make breakfast for him but the pancakes (made from scratch) were pronounced never as light and fluffy as those from a mix. My declarations of love were met with "I love me too.", my presents to him sneered at and tossed aside for not being expensive enough ( a little thing he learned from his father. ) He was embarrassed to have me for his wife, unable to defend me to his family, often telling people the reason he married me to offset his embarrassment.

When I was a young girl, I'd read romance novels voraciously, right up until I got married.
I soon realized however that life isn't like a romance novel. For me, romance became a joke--to be valued , loved, respected, an impossibility. After that, I no longer had the heart to read them.

At this moment, I wonder if I will ever find it. What if that was my only chance?

So far, I keep telling myself that I am WORTH being pursued. I deserve to be treated like someone's princess. sigh.