IT TAKES A VALIUM

Happy Mother’s Day! This year Mother’s Day happens to coincide with my wedding anniversary. This was very poor planning on my part as I once again get screwed on the gifts (my birthday is also near Christmas), but when we picked this date seven years ago I wasn’t even sure I wanted kids so coinciding with Mother’s Day was not a concern. Silly me.

Anyway, I though I’d share my wedding story with you today, rather than write some sappy story about how great it is to be a mom. Don’t worry; there is NOTHING sappy about my wedding day. Read on:

As you may know, marrying Chris would not be my first time down the aisle. That, coupled with the fact that all our friends and family were 3,000 miles away, led to our decision to elope. Since I can’t keep a secret to save my life, we didn’t actually “elope” because we told everyone what we were doing. We did, however, jaunt off to Hawaii by ourselves to get married on the beach. I wanted a simple affair, just the two of us on the island of Kauai. I spent more money on my new bathing suit then I did on my wedding dress ($20 at Macy’s). The only missing detail was who would marry us?

After googling “weddings Kauai,” we found a would-be officiant here on this site:  www.hawaiiweddings.com. Captain Howie was prominently featured as the man of the hour. He looked a bit like a monk with long hair, a beard and a parrot on his shoulder. That coupled with the name of his site (“Above Heaven’s Gate”) admittedly caused some concern that we’d never return from Hawaii and I would become his twelfth wife. But we were drawn to his seemingly gentle nature and the folksy manner in which he performed his ceremonies: simple, on the beach, with no pretention. His photos seemed a bit cheesy, I will admit, but we weren’t that concerned about the photos; we really just wanted a meaningful ceremony by someone fun and cool. We had a phone consultation with Howie’s wife Deva; she seemed warm and friendly and extremely accommodating. We learned that they no longer did weddings in Kauai, only Oahu, but we really liked them so we changed our plans and a booked a date: Friday, May 13th. We met on a Friday the 13th so we figured it was an auspicious day and why mess with a good thing.

We arrived in Hawaii a few days before our wedding. Captain Howie asked to meet us the day before the ceremony. We assumed this was so he could get to know us and plan the ceremony. We were wrong. We arrived at his self-proclaimed hobbit house and were greeted not by the gentle monk-looking man with a beard and long hair but a freak of nature with a completely shaved head, but for a rat tail. Warning sign #1. He zeroed in on me and acted as though Chris didn’t exist. Warning sign #2. He showed us his hobbit house and “Pukalani falls” which was a small, staged waterfall in his backyard (for which he charged extra by the way, if you chose this locale over the beach). Then he led us inside to select a photo package. He showed us sample photos of a bride looking longingly down at her new husband who was on bended knee, and a close-up of the couple’s hands, crossed to showcase the wedding rings. This type of photography might have been cool in 1971 but in 2005 it had no place. But as I said, we didn’t care about the photos so we picked the most modest package and soldiered on. He talked me into buying a crown of flowers for my head and having my hair and make-up done beforehand, telling me how beautiful I’d look as he leered at me with his crazy eyebrows. I left feeling confused and a bit deflated: was I getting married or was I about to star in some bizarre production of Mama Mia?

The Hobbit House. Big freaking deal.

On the ride back to our hotel we debated cancelling the whole affair and finding someone else, but we really wanted to get married on Friday the 13th so we kept our plans. When we arrived early on our “wedding day,” Howie’s wife told us the make-up artist would be late and that we should go hang at Subway for an hour or so. God forbid she invite us to enjoy the hobbit house or offer us a glass of water. No dice. This was not exactly the warm, fuzzy partner I spoke to on the phone. Warning sign #3. We went for a ride and came back to meet my make-up artist who was clearly used to making up drag queens.  Truth be told, he was the nicest person in the place and I harbor no ill-will towards him. I just wish he hadn’t made me up to look like a Hawaiian Rue Paul.

Jane, have you seen Cheetah?

After a 90 minute hair and make-up session, I donned my $20 dress and my $100 flower wreath, and exited the changing room. I was greeted by Howie, who was wearing a golf shirt and a sarong. His freakish bald head was gleaming in the sun and something in my gut told me that he was wearing nothing under that sarong. Warning sign #4. He was anxious to get going on the photos. Again he greeted me in a friendly though leacherous way and acted as though Chris were invisible. We started at the falls; meanwhile at the hobbit house his wife and their two employees were busy working in the background. Ah, such romance!

Off to the Senior Prom!

We finally moved on to the beach; the only place we’d really wanted to be. The grueling photo session continued and at one point he asked us to sit in the sand for a more relaxed view. As we got down, so did he, and that’s when the unthinkable happened. His sarong fell and I get a view of the crown jewels. There were no tighty-whiteys to obscure the view; just a lovely shot of two saggy balls hanging in the breeze. This is not something I wanted to see on my wedding day, not even if they belonged to my soon-to-be husband. I felt angry, betrayed, shocked, grossed-out. Most of all I felt panic. How would I look this man in the face during the ceremony? I just wanted to get this over and done with.

Did you see what I just saw???

We finally finished our photo shoot after over an hour of posing. He went off to bring his camera home while we waited alone on the beach. I am not a romantic but the thought of this guy marrying us was starting to make me physically ill. So Chris and I married each other alone on the beach. We exchanged rings, kissed, did it all. Our ceremony was even blessed by a mangy dog who decided to rub up against us while we waited for Howie. This really felt like the cherry on top of our shit-sundae because the dog was beyond mangy: filthy dirty, open sores, foaming at the mouth. Again, exactly what a bride wants on her wedding day.

After more than twenty minutes he finally returned (his house, by the way, was across the street; a two minute walk). Rather than rush to us he stopped to talk to a neighbor, I believe she was the owner of the mangy dog. Could this guy be more of an asshole? He finally approached us and was about to start when he realized he didn’t know one thing about us. He barely knew Chris’s name. We started to tell him about our spiritual philosophy, for lack of a better word, when he cut us off and said “yeah, yeah, you’re spiritual but not religious. I got it.” In answer to my question: yes. This guy could be more of an asshole. The ceremony was fine; it lasted about five minutes. We were married. We went back to his house to sign the marriage certificate. I thought to myself: this is where they’ll get friendly! They’ll pop open some champagne and congratulate us! But sadly no one at the hobbit house gave a rat’s ass about us or our wedding. They kept their heads down and continued with their work. Even Howie neglected to congratulate us. All he cared about were his ridiculous photos. He sent us on our way, another newly married couple who could come by anytime to view our photos. No thanks.

Where was the fun, friendly Captain Howie we’d read about on all those testimonials on his website? Where was the romance, the caring, the support from his lovely wife Deva? They were nothing of the sort. Why am I surprised by this when there were so many warning signs? To put my feelings in as few words as possible: they sucked. Fortunately we stayed at an incredible hotel: the Kahala Mandarin, and they treated us like royalty, saving our wedding day. On our way to dinner a waitress took this photo. It cost us nothing and ended up being the only photo taken on our wedding day that we liked.

At least we got one good photo!

Captain Howie: I sit here on my wedding anniversary and recall the most unromantic, cheesy, inappropriate wedding ever to take place. Fuck you for ruining my wedding. I hope you read this, as well as some potential clients, though I seriously doubt you’d remember us since our presence barely even registered in your life.

If anyone out there has ever had a similar experience with Captain Howie, please comment here. I’d love to hear about it!

One further note: Don’t feel bad for me that my wedding was ruined. We had a wonderful time in Hawaii and now laugh heartily when we think of the experience. We are definitely going to renew our vows in three years for our 10th anniversary and throw a big bash. It will be a casual affair; wear what you want, but underwear is an absolute must.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

In my last entry you might recall that my husband dropped the travel bomb on me.  He was headed to Florida for work for four days.  I handled this with grace and dignity, at least on the outside.  Apparently I have matured a bit since those early days as a new mom of two.

He left at the crack of dawn on Monday morning and I woke up full of vim and vigor, ready to face the week.  I even felt a tad excited about having the boys to myself for a few days.  I eagerly sat down to fill in our calendar with a plethora of activities, ensuring we’d be busy and the time would fly by.  That’s when I heard it:  the cough.  My five year old Cole has asthma so every cold starts with a distinct cough.  This cough resembled his sick cough, but it could be something else, right?  I began praying that he was choking on something (something I could hopefully dislodge of course).   “Please don’t get sick” I thought.  And then I saw our immediate future unfolding before me:  he gets sick, his brother follows suit, and I’m the last to fall, as always.  He can’t go to school. We can’t go anywhere.  No one with kids can visit us.  We’re stuck here alone…for four long, miserable fucking days.

The cough continued all morning.  At one point he looked up at me with his baby blues and lamented, “Mommy, I don’t feel good.”  From there my prophecy began to come true.  His cold got worse with a low grade fever, meaning no school for two days.  My two year old was enjoying good health at first, meaning he had plenty of energy and did not want to be stuck in the house with a sick brother.  We all know how much fun it is to be around an unhappy two year-old!  Cole was better by Wednesday, at which point I had a sort throat and the baby was sniffling and coughing.   We had to cancel most of our plans and were all bored out of our minds.  The television was going pretty much 24/7. The absolute worst part:  in a few days I would be enjoying my first girls’ weekend since both kids were born.  Thirty-six hours with four of my closest friends at a spa in the Berkshires!  To say that I have built this up in my mind is the understatement of the year.  Based on my enthusiasm you would have thought I was going to Tuscany for a week instead of western Massachusetts for one night.  I was beyond excited so the thought that I’d be blowing my nose through my massage and unable to taste all the food and wine I’d be inhaling was almost unbearable.  The best I could do was try a relentless regimen of Cold-eze and Emergen-C, as extra sleep was not on the docket, courtesy of a now-sick two year old who coughed all night long.  When will they make a version of Nyquil for two year-olds by the way?  Sadly there was no one to whom I could plead my case and say “I need rest!  Please watch the kids and bring me soup!”  I was alone.

What happened to this Godsend???

I remember a time when I used to fantasize about getting divorced.  I did not have this fantasy because I dislike my husband.  I really love him.  I even like him, most days.  I did not have this fantasy because I think divorce sounds fun (been there, done that, and it was horrible to say the least, even if my ex-husband has turned out to be one of my best friends).  I have this fantasy because with divorce comes shared custody, which typically means he takes the kids every other weekend.  They leave on a Friday night and I would be alone until late Sunday, every other weekend.  Let me repeat that:  every…other…weekend.   A good friend and I would talk about how great this sounded and felt sort of sad that we liked our husband too much to kick them out.  We were joking of course but admittedly there were moments when the appeal of some freedom outweighed the charm of our husbands.  After this week, however, all thoughts of divorcing my husband have gone out the window.   Instead I’m trying to think of ways I can ensure he’s happy in our marriage:  I’ll stop complaining!  I’ll cook more pig product!  I’ll even bring felatio back to our sexual repertoire – just don’t leave me alone with these animals!!!

You see, what my friend and I neglected to consider is the fact that, even though Daddy takes the kids two out of every fourteen nights, you’re stuck with them the other twelve…alone.  Raising kids on your own is hard.   There is no respite; there is no self-care.  It’s just you and the kids, day in and day out.  How did my mom do it?  I have a couple of friends who are separated from their husbands and, although they don’t complain about things much, I know it’s not easy for them.  Some of them aren’t even getting that every other weekend deal.  How about women whose husbands are in the military and deployed? At least if you’re widowed or divorced, there’s the hope, albeit small, of meeting a hot, sexy young guy.  If your husband’s deployed, I imagine it’s just a waiting game, ticking the days off the calendar.  Then there are the women who’ve chosen to have kids on their own, either through adoption, sperm donation, or a one night stand gone horribly wrong.  Whatever the reason, all I have to say is “wow.”  I remember being in my early thirties, newly divorced and watching the clock tick.  I consoled myself by saying that if I didn’t meet anyone by the time I turned thirty-five, I’d just have a baby on my own.  I can barely control my laughter right now as I think back to that sentiment.  How adorable of me to think I could do it on my own.  I now know better.

So moms with decent partners, let’s make a pledge.  If you know a mom who’s doing it on her own, for whatever reason, reach out to her.  At the very least, give her a hug.  Maybe even take her kids for a couple of hours or invite her over to dinner so she gets a break from cooking.  Do something nice for her.  It will come back to you, I promise.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

Everything turns to shit with the utterance of those dreaded words.  If you are married to someone who travels for work you know exactly what I’m talking about.  These plans rarely happen months or even weeks in advance.  They are typically instead dropped in my lap a mere one or two days prior to departure.  I’m never thrilled but have finally accepted my fate as a single mom, albeit temporarily.  So when I got the word that my husband needed to go Florida for four, possibly five days this week, I put on a happy face, grit my teeth and tell him to enjoy a bahama mama for me.  It wasn’t always so rosy though…

The year my second son was born was the year in which my husband’s work travel increased, exponentially.  He was gone about ten to fifteen days per month.   When he wasn’t traveling, he was working from home so he would often saunter out of his home office, dirty dishes in hand, and casually tell me that he was leaving the next day forTexas.  He’d probably be back in three days.  You can picture my reaction as I was dealing with a three year old who complained about everything while cuddling my colicky newborn in the sling to keep him from wailing.  Suffice to say, it wasn’t pretty.

He eventually became afraid of me but rather than deal with his fear head on, he did the “man thing” and down-played each trip.  “This is just a one day job” he’d say.  I would then painfully extract the details of his trip only to find he was leaving on a Monday afternoon, gone all day Tuesday, and returning late Wednesday night.   So it’s a one day job that will take a full three days to complete.  Was this deceptive tactic a wise choice given my hormonal state?  My friends, I think you know the answer to that question.  To his credit, he did keep his trips as short as possible, often taking red-eyes and leaving at ungodly hours in the morning.  He never stopped to take in the sights or visit a friend; he got home as quickly as possible and because of that we stayed married.  He did, however, have the gall to tell me how exhausted he was on these trips.  He wasn’t sleeping well on those king size hotel beds in the quiet room where no one was waking him up to suck on his nipples or cry about a bad dream.  Poor guy!

We ended up seeing a therapist together at some point during that year.  We went under the guise of wanting to learn to be better parents but we ended up talking a lot about the havoc two children were wreaking on our marriage.   The first issue to come up was the travel.  I expected Ms. Therapist/single mom to be extremely sympathetic to my plight, but to my shock and horror she was siding with my husband!  I sat there while the two of them discussed my reactions to his work travel.  She was careful to label them reactions, as opposed to responses, which apparently are the much more mature and appropriate way to go.  Who knew?  She nodded with empathy as he explained how hard this was for him.  He didn’t enjoy all of this travel and being away from his family but what choice did he have?   She even added her expert opinion that I am “low to adapt” and therefore we must find ways to placate my weakness.  My response to that opinion:  fuck you (imagine what my reaction would have been!)

In hindsight I can see that she was probably right.  I am low to adapt.  I react rather than respond.  At 44 I don’t see this changing so I guess we are going to have to find ways to deal with me – good luck with that.   She suggested that rather than tell me about his travel plans face to face, he should call me and leave me a voicemail explaining his plans.  That will give me time to go throw some stuff across the room, complain to a friend, have a glass of wine and then gradually reach acceptance, the final stage of grief.  We left her office with a plan and my husband looked so happy you would have thought we’d had sex in her coat closet.  I think it was the fact that a woman finally agreed with him.  “I really liked her!” he exclaimed.  “I think we should keep seeing her, don’t you?”  Personally I’d rather he see a prostitute than that agreeable therapist because I didn’t need one more person pointing out how manic I had become.  I liked trying to convince him that I was “normal” for a post-partum mom of two. I didn’t want to be labeled “low to adapt.”

We didn’t return to her, but not because of my insecurities.  It was just too hard to schedule an appointment when he wasn’t traveling.  We did, however, try her voicemail idea.  It felt sort of ridiculous since my husband worked from home so if I saw him calling me from the other room, I knew what was coming.  I tried hard to respond and not react.  I listened to the voicemail and resisted going in the other room to give him my tirade about how hard this was going to be for me.   Amazingly enough it worked.  By the time he finished his work day and we were ready to discuss his trip, I was over my emotions and was ready to deal with the details:  could my mom come and help me?  Could I get a sitter so I didn’t have to miss Mom’s Night Out?  Did we have enough wine in the house?

Two years later when I hear those words I’m still not thrilled but we no longer need to use our voicemail trick.  It is what it is and I’ve learned to adapt, slowly of course.  I try to keep us super busy to make the time fly.  The morning he leaves I get out the calendar and we talk about all the fun things we can do:  playdates, dinner at our friends’ house, a trip to the museum, etc.   The worst part for me is being responsible for the garbage.  I also have a hard time with the “I miss daddy” factor.  While I do believe my five year-old gravely misses his father, he also uses these three words to manipulate me into feeling sorry for him as he now thinks he has an ace in the hole for every transgression.  “Cole, why did you hit your brother?”  Out goes the lip and as it begins to quiver he retorts, “I miss Daddy!”  Oh please.  I’ve gone from being sympathetic to being a cold fish.  Suck it up kid, he’ll be home soon and you’re all his!

These trips are no longer so bad; in some ways they are actually easier because we get into our routine and no one comes home to periodically screw with that routine.  One thing I cannot accomplish, however, is to implement change.  So, even though I pledged to try something new each week, I need to take a break this week.  We are in maintenance mode, nothing more.  Please forgive me.  I’ll be back again soon to give you an update.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.