Long story endless…the essay formerly known as Supermarket Epiphany, as seen on Imperfect Parent, has since evolved into what I’ve posted below, so if bits and pieces seems familiar, that’s why, it’s not your Turkey Day hangover playing tricks on you. Because it was published online, it not eligible to be published in print in most places, or online at other sites, except here. It is long, that’s not an illusion. I hope you’ll grab a cup of coffee or tea, read it anyway, and let me know what you think. A special thanks to Wendy and Blog Antagonist, who have helped me craft this with their feedback and encouragement, and to Sister-Friend for giving me that very first gentle nudge from 600 miles away by simply saying the first version wasn’t long enough…and for reading every single draft, re-write, thought, and ramble.

The following is property of Kvetch Blog and may not be reprinted without paying me an ungodly sum of money permission.
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The Maybe Wife

My childhood was compact. We lived in a row house — a narrow existence. And it was safe, like our one-way street with cars parked on both sides that I was allowed to cross by myself when I was six. It was like every other street in my city neighborhood, a middle-class pattern of attached dwellings and lives. I knew nothing of foreign lands called suburbia and rural routes were only traveled while watching The Waltons.

Academically, I knew that other places existed, but they were merely vacations spots limited to Northeastern cities within driving distance. I never contemplated lives being anywhere else. The world was where I was. I did not think outside my own city limits.

I always wondered, though; how the building we called the Sears Tower was the tallest building in the world. It was eleven stories high and it stood next to our local Sears store. It was my childhood curiosity, but I said nothing in fear of appearing limited. I’m glad I didn’t know then that I was.

But this petite world of mine was always filled to capacity with family and friends and familiar opportunities. It lacked nothing, and until college I looked no further than the bus stop for anything I ever wanted. Even then I didn’t look too far. I was so single-city-minded that I lived at home and went to school thirty minutes from where I was raised.

In my married motherhood, as in my childhood, sameness had its virtues. I strove to remain true to the blueprints that had mapped out my future. It was a definitive plan of how things would be one day. We would live in a big house, and we’d already chosen the Stickley furniture for the living room. We drove around looking for the perfect two-story attached to the right-styled three-car garage. Our wardrobes would be extensive and up-to-date, although not too trendy. We fashioned ourselves the couple — the family — that everyone knew and liked; the ones who had come so far, worked so hard, and earned so much. It took a certain amount of confidence to pursue these dreams for so long. Early on I grasped and embraced the fact that I cheered from the sidelines and kept the home fires burning while the dream was being built on the field, according to plan.

We started drawing up these plans not long after we met as college freshmen on a long ago and far away cold January night. Charlie was a serious pre-med student, studying biology. I was the friend of a friend, studying English. I remember the first time I saw him, sitting on that dorm bed, against the wall. I flirted simply; leaning very intentionally on the door jam. Surrounded by chattering sorority sisters, I didn’t hear a word they said. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was clean-shaven, a little preppy, and nonchalant. Very collegiate, blonde and suburban, unlike the rough-cut urban boyfriends of my short but colorful social past who built their own cars and wore Wallabies and flannel shirts. I had big hair, frosted make-up and tight jeans. I’m sure for both of us, the dichotomy fanned the flame.

It wasn’t until five months later when we’d meet again on our first, somewhat arranged date. Embarrassed at first by being seen with someone in an argyle sweater and boat shoes, I was, however, intrigued by a car with a sunroof. I found out much later that he was equally ill at ease with my choice of wearing dungarees. It certainly goes to reason then, that through this seemingly social incompatibility our fate was sealed over a salad bar dinner in University City and underage drinking at a college pub. We never dated anyone else.

We grew up together from that day on and lived a reality that was based on chasing our dreams. We finished our degrees and while Charlie went off to the last medical school on his list, I got a job writing ads. We were as inseparable as two people could be, living different lives 100 miles apart.

I never lived single. I remained on the one-way street in my childhood bedroom, repainted and rearranged to reflect my adulthood. I visited Charlie on weekends for four years, waiting as he studied for exams, going along to events and to parties, always being the girlfriend, until I was the wife, right before he was officially an M.D. It had been seven years in the making, the end of the courtship and the beginning of more waiting as Charlie began his career and we began our family.

And then, nearly two decades later, all those plans we made seemed to be falling into place. We created a deep-rooted family life and boasted a successful career. Our pockets were padded. It was a perfect life or so I pretended. What I was feeling on the inside didn’t even remotely resemble perfect.

Despite my doubts and the internal conflicts that ensued, my wonderful kids, one of each, brought me joy each and every day. My true dreams were made of their toothless smiles and scraped knees. I marveled from day one at their little bodies, these pint-sized people who were in my charge – my biggest dream was fulfilled by taking care of them until they were old enough to take care of themselves. Luckily every part of mothering, even the bad parts, made me feel like I really mattered, as did my circle of French-manicured girlfriends. With latte klatches, wine times and PTO committees, Temple sisterhood, a cacophony of Tuesday golf lessons and Thursday tennis clinics, we harmonized and reveled in suburban bliss. I upheld the position of homemaker in high esteem, even without acknowledgement or accolades from Charlie. The title and all the trimmings suited me deliciously, politically correct, appreciated, or not.

Even with me as a stay-at-home mom, our bank account balance was high enough to pay all the bills every month…and then some. We saved money; paid off six digits in student loans and lived in a modest lap of luxury. A brand new Land Rover and champagne-colored top-of-the-line mom mobile, a stable of high-end golf clubs, bicycles, sports equipment and tools took up residence in our garage.

Finally feeling settled after five interstate moves, I lost the 30 pounds I’d been carrying around since Thomas was born. After ten years it felt good to tuck in a shirt again, even wear something sleeveless, and buy clothes at a whim. The kids were able to keep up and excel. Elizabeth took ballet and tennis and had friends within shouting distance. Her seven year old spirit soared when she learned to jump off the diving board at the country club. Thomas’ passion for basketball escalated with our season tickets to the Bulls games.

We lived in a newly decorated four-bedroom Tudor, tucked neatly into an old oak-lined street with a sidewalk, a charming prerequisite for me. Basketball courts and Little Tikes dotted our shady lane, and just down the road were the baseball fields. It all was there in the town we chose as our own amidst the many. A quaint one block downtown boasted wrought iron awning-shaded benches and an exquisitely maintained street perfect for strolling. Overflowing floral planters emblazoned with melon-colored petunias accessorized the storefronts. In the spring, summer and fall blossoming trees set the stage for bare branches that held twinkling lights to brighten the long, dreary winter months.

No matter the season, it was the place for eating soft serve swirl ice cream cones and visiting with friends and neighbors, for gathering at the library or for just running that quick errand or two and bumping into someone you know, which was inevitable. It was a suburb diverse enough not to be Stepford. It was adorable yet tinted with sophistication and ranked as one of America’s best places to live.

Hard-to-come-by reservations at trendy, high-priced restaurants included coveted tables in the kitchens of the worlds most renowned and temperamental chefs filled our Saturday nights with friends. Bottles of wine flowed freely; nary had a drop ever been wasted staining a designer creation worn once nevertheless. We were intricately woven into the social fabric that had become our lives. The laughter amongst this crowd of friends was boisterous and heartfelt and even more so on the days we shared pizza and wiped sauce off each other’s children’s faces.

So, while my children were growing up in a potentially golden life I claimed as well, the fabric was unraveling.

I thought that the career was the means to the dream more than it was the dream itself. I was wrong. Family was always on the backburner – behind work, behind golf, behind everything. I knew that Charlie was disillusioned when he said he was doing it all for us. I believed that marriage would mean that family would come first. I kept waiting.

My own wants and needs had been left out of the long-term equation and much of that was my own fault. I hadn’t even had time to consider what they might be, but it didn’t matter. I was content to be wife, mother and homemaker.

Charlie, on the other hand, wanted me to like what he liked. He said exactly that. He wanted me to surprise him with Tuesday night dinner plans and Thursday theater tickets. He wanted me to look and act a certain way. He didn’t need to say that, I knew because of all he didn’t say. There were several times over the years that I realized that Charlie had no idea about the work I did while he was gone twelve to seventeen hours each day. As time passed I forgot to remember if he ever asked, or I just stopped answering.

I had much if you counted possessions, but got exactly what I asked for in terms of companionship, compassion and partnership. Nothing.

I had waited too long to admit that being a doctor’s wife – being Charlie’s wife — was not what I thought it would be. I was not only traversing parenthood on my own, due to twelve-hour surgeries and expansive rounds of golf, I was expected to feed the bottomless pit of an 18 year old ego in a 38 year old body. I was no longer the city kid who took baby steps. I was a grown and educated woman who stood on her own two feet and didn’t grovel, even for oft missed affection, attention and kindness. I filled the emptiness with expensive clothes and custom draperies. Shopping was well-tolerated — though stingy with time and interest, Charlie was generous when he benefited, and a well-dressed house, and well-dressed wife, made him look good too – to everyone else.

I was 37 and realized that money doesn’t solve anything but money problems. I also discovered that fidelity was an option not always exercised, even by a Jewish husband who was once your college sweetheart.

Friends who knew me well offered words of wisdom and advice. No matter what they said they were usually right and that became both comforting and disconcerting. They said that my children deserved to grow up with a mother who was happy. I thought that was selfish. Children are egocentric creatures by design. Believing that my kids would be happier if I was happier was absurd.

No wonder a trip to the grocery store was a treat. It doesn’t matter what kind of car you drive there, that’s when you know you’re in big trouble.

In the grocery story I was as alone as if I was soaking in a hot bath, or taking a long leisurely drive. Walking among strangers was the perfect place to drift off without the fear of anything more than a minor shopping cart mishap. I even muttered to myself sometimes, but caught it in time. Usually. “There she goes again,” I imagined the produce man said as I passed the snap peas for the third time in twenty minutes. I didn’t care.

While pushing a half-full shopping cart and straddling the frozen food and chip aisle, I was contemplating nothing more cumbersome than whether to buy fat free or sugar free ice cream. In the shadow of credit cards, convertibles and country clubs, in the company of fudge bars and corn chips, it struck me. If I did nothing, my children would grow up with a mother who could not bear to look at herself in the mirror. And no way in my neatly manicured personal hell was that going to happen.

It became all about self-respect.

If I continued allowing Charlie to pretend to work on the marriage by faking his way through counseling sessions only to toss the homework to the roadside, I was leading myself deeper into the mirage. He said he was scared to death of losing his family. He never once mentioned a fear, or concern, of losing me.

It became a game of semantics, in which he had met his match. I caught every elusive reference to interests, whereabouts and future plans. I excused his indifference in the hopes of a magical transformation.

I wrongly depended on him for the sense of self he helped me discover twenty years before, but had not nurtured since. I was glad for the expansive list of places visited and cities lived in, and for the introduction into a world far beyond that of the city limits of my childhood.

I owed much to myself, yet he took all the credit and bowed to all the applause. Was I the only one who saw that although he was a supremely well-educated, skilled professional, I was the one who had grown and changed with each year, with each move and with each child? Through those same years and circumstances, Charlie’s world remained steadfast on a pedestal and sheltered behind a surgical mask. I had become a different woman, one with substance of character and strength, as I fended for myself within the confines of my marriage.

Charlie said he would decide if he wanted to stay married to me, while living in the facade of a happy home life and studying for his boards. I did everything I could think of, and everything he asked. I kept the house spotless, I entertained, I lost more weight, I planned vacations he always wanted. I feigned bubbly. Then, through this self-imposed persistence, I questioned my own ambivalence. Even more so I questioned Charlie’s lack of commitment to our family, twenty years in the making. I found it appalling.

I had friends, money, kids, hobbies and standing. I’d lost weight; I had great jewelry and traveled extensively. But Charlie and my marriage were creating within me a separate self who had no will to thrive. I wasn’t happy with the way I was being treated or with the way I felt. From that moment I acknowledged it, I was mortified. I had always believed that good was a given, that it was intrinsic. Now I believed in nothing. I was no longer nestled in either my cozy urban childhood or my precious suburban dementia. I was temporarily homeless. Yet, I no longer felt lost.

Did I want to be with someone who was willing to disregard me? It was no longer a question of what I would do without him. It was the recognition that I, alone, was trying to resuscitate a marriage that had already died. How valiant. How humiliating. I was doing it all for maybe.

I could no longer fan the flames of righteous indignation, although somewhat earned, because Charlie saved lives. I had long ago stopped lauding the efforts that resulted in rebuilt bathrooms. I gave life. I built self-esteem in the shape of Lego towers. We were even.

Usually comforted by my rote rendition of life, I realized I had no idea what was next. An unfamiliar but glorious deep spark of hope calmed me. I smiled at the notion that I’d put together the first pieces of the puzzle. I tapped my fingers on the handle of the cart, eager to tackle the rest.

There I was, alone, in a very crowded grocery store, with all the ingredients for either internal combustion or personal redemption. I chose a little of each, paid for all the items I didn’t remember choosing, and drove back to the house I called home.

* Names have been changed. Duh.