Not Ready
by Deborah Taddeo
Northeast Ohio Writer
I was twenty three. I had just had my second child. A son nine pounds 13 ounces, beautiful. His skin had a bronze tone and he had black hair, startling straight, two inches long and standing straight up and out from his head. An easy birth but a demanding baby. Breast feed but colic, something I understand now but not then. Constantly awakened by his cries of pain. Changing him, feeding him, comforting him and dozing off as I held him in my arms I would awaken to see him looking up at me as though I held all the answers to his needs.
I sat this night in the downstairs double on the edge of Cleveland. A cheap rent randomly found. Dirty in need of deep cleaning. We scrubbed and brightened our new home with paint and wallpaper. It was the seventies so the entranceway to our living room was covered in large orange and yellow flowered wallpaper. The living room had a marble fireplace and green drapes. The dining room had an old fashioned window seat its worn wood covered with linoleum and bright yellow and orange cushions in the corners. Hardwood floors were in both rooms and we polished them and put large gold oval rugs to soften them. The kitchen was old and small but had a window with yellow curtains and a small table and chairs. Off the kitchen in the center of the hallway was a tiny bathroom with a free standing claw foot bathtub. A small bedroom sat on each side of the bathroom. We had a large covered front porch with an old fashion swing we found and hung.
My husband twenty two. My first born two. The perfect baby, now toddler. Always a smile sweeping across his face, fine soft blond hair framing his large brown eyes set far apart. My husband quiet, stoic, some might say completely overwhelmed.
This night as I sat in my dining room. My neighbor a young newlywed – not a mom and I sit eating snacks and sipping coffee. Speaking softly as my newborn slept in his crib against the dining room wall.
My husband is on a bowling team. The bowling team is in a bar and they play on machines. This I also didn't know.
My neighbor and I start talking about our husbands. I had been taught never to say no to a man. Even a man, who is really still a boy uncertain of how he came to be a husband and a father. A man/boy who struggles with jealousy of his sons. His wife/girlfriend tired overwhelmed herself. Now she is totally in love with two other tiny males. A man/boy who is lost, and his wife/girlfriend unable to help him find his way, assuming he wants no part of caring for his sons.
Tonight the two of us discuss our husbands' desires. I start out calm, laughing, blushing. “Yes,” I say, “My husband is very amorous..” I am four weeks post delivery. I am not healed. I am not sleeping. When my sons nap I clean my tiny home, wash clothes and cook three course dinners ready to be served the moment my husband walks in from work. Unable to communicate my needs or understand his I care for our children, offer him a clean home and home cooked meals. Suddenly in mid-giggle I burst into tears that seem to be limitless. I talk about my newborn finally falling asleep late, long after his brother. I talk about going to bed where my husband waits, his hands and mouth all over me. My hand meeting his, trying to keep him from touching, prodding the place that still aches, sore, a gaping area that seems to scream, asking for space for rest. Trying to satisfy his needs anyway but that. Finally, my husband tires of the game, the hunt and rolling over falls soundly asleep. I close my eyes and immediately sleep. Only to be awakened moments later by my newborn's screams. I shouldn't say no to my little one and I don't.
Finally my weeping stops and I smile weakly at my neighbor, as she sits stunned and silent across from me. Rising she simply hugs me and leaves.
My newborn awakens in his crib against the wall. I provide a clean diaper and nurse him. A miracle occurs when he settles back to sleep.
My husband stumbles in from his bowling machine at the bar and grins, I don't. The memory of all those tears still fresh.
We crawl into bed and his hands begin their demands. I speak, “Can we not do this tonight? We both know this has nowhere to go and we both know how it ends. You sleep, I don't.” Perhaps the liquor has dampened some of his desire, he frowns and turns away. I am able to sleep an hour before my son awakens.
My marriage ends nineteen years later than it should have. Understanding never comes for either of us, we never grow together. Never together, apart from beginning to end, we remained not ready.
I sat this night in the downstairs double on the edge of Cleveland. A cheap rent randomly found. Dirty in need of deep cleaning. We scrubbed and brightened our new home with paint and wallpaper. It was the seventies so the entranceway to our living room was covered in large orange and yellow flowered wallpaper. The living room had a marble fireplace and green drapes. The dining room had an old fashioned window seat its worn wood covered with linoleum and bright yellow and orange cushions in the corners. Hardwood floors were in both rooms and we polished them and put large gold oval rugs to soften them. The kitchen was old and small but had a window with yellow curtains and a small table and chairs. Off the kitchen in the center of the hallway was a tiny bathroom with a free standing claw foot bathtub. A small bedroom sat on each side of the bathroom. We had a large covered front porch with an old fashion swing we found and hung.
My husband twenty two. My first born two. The perfect baby, now toddler. Always a smile sweeping across his face, fine soft blond hair framing his large brown eyes set far apart. My husband quiet, stoic, some might say completely overwhelmed.
This night as I sat in my dining room. My neighbor a young newlywed – not a mom and I sit eating snacks and sipping coffee. Speaking softly as my newborn slept in his crib against the dining room wall.
My husband is on a bowling team. The bowling team is in a bar and they play on machines. This I also didn't know.
My neighbor and I start talking about our husbands. I had been taught never to say no to a man. Even a man, who is really still a boy uncertain of how he came to be a husband and a father. A man/boy who struggles with jealousy of his sons. His wife/girlfriend tired overwhelmed herself. Now she is totally in love with two other tiny males. A man/boy who is lost, and his wife/girlfriend unable to help him find his way, assuming he wants no part of caring for his sons.
Tonight the two of us discuss our husbands' desires. I start out calm, laughing, blushing. “Yes,” I say, “My husband is very amorous..” I am four weeks post delivery. I am not healed. I am not sleeping. When my sons nap I clean my tiny home, wash clothes and cook three course dinners ready to be served the moment my husband walks in from work. Unable to communicate my needs or understand his I care for our children, offer him a clean home and home cooked meals. Suddenly in mid-giggle I burst into tears that seem to be limitless. I talk about my newborn finally falling asleep late, long after his brother. I talk about going to bed where my husband waits, his hands and mouth all over me. My hand meeting his, trying to keep him from touching, prodding the place that still aches, sore, a gaping area that seems to scream, asking for space for rest. Trying to satisfy his needs anyway but that. Finally, my husband tires of the game, the hunt and rolling over falls soundly asleep. I close my eyes and immediately sleep. Only to be awakened moments later by my newborn's screams. I shouldn't say no to my little one and I don't.
Finally my weeping stops and I smile weakly at my neighbor, as she sits stunned and silent across from me. Rising she simply hugs me and leaves.
My newborn awakens in his crib against the wall. I provide a clean diaper and nurse him. A miracle occurs when he settles back to sleep.
My husband stumbles in from his bowling machine at the bar and grins, I don't. The memory of all those tears still fresh.
We crawl into bed and his hands begin their demands. I speak, “Can we not do this tonight? We both know this has nowhere to go and we both know how it ends. You sleep, I don't.” Perhaps the liquor has dampened some of his desire, he frowns and turns away. I am able to sleep an hour before my son awakens.
My marriage ends nineteen years later than it should have. Understanding never comes for either of us, we never grow together. Never together, apart from beginning to end, we remained not ready.
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Deborah Taddeo is 72 years old and resides in Independence Ohio, a suburb just South of Cleveland. She loves that for five generations her family has lived in Cleveland and the surrounding suburbs.
Since recently retiring as a medical administrative assistant and patient service representative she has devoted a great deal of time exploring how to fail at retirement. Fortunately, her joy of writing has sustained her during this period of adjustment. Deborah is very proud of her choice to put her Savior first and her thriving family. Deborah fondly embraces her title of Crazy Grandma. |
