An Open Letter to Ruanita About the Craziness of It All

February 16, 2011

Dear Ruanita,

I miss you. I'm sitting in the living room watching the boys play Super Mario World on the Wii and I can't get you off of my mind. You are a mere fifteen miles away at work, but you might as well be on the other side of the world. I feel so disconnected. Perhaps it's because the kids and I have been sick for the last two weeks. Or perhaps it's because we've been so busy lately. Or perhaps it's because I get to talk to you for all of ten minutes in the morning during the week. Whatever the reason, I feel disconnected from you. I feel like there is space between us that has never been there before. We talk on the phone every day, but so much gets lost across telephone lines. I miss you. I miss your face.

I know this life we've been living for the last couple of years isn't exactly what we signed up for. Quite frankly, it sucks. I don't like having dinner alone every night. I don't like leaving you and the kids every morning. I don't like being sound asleep when you come home at eleven o'clock in the evening. I want to be there to hear about your day, and I want to tell you about mine. But I can't seem to keep my eyes open past ten o'clock at night these days. And the ten minutes we get in the morning, when you are exhausted and I am inevitably running late, isn't sufficient to share all of the details of the life I live five days a week without you. It is difficult enough to find the time to discuss the absolute necessities—schedules, Lucas' school, bills, money, doctor's appointments—much less the insignificant details that make a life. The insignificant (or perhaps the most important?) details—the funny little stories and entertaining anecdotes—get pushed aside for lack of time to share them. As a result, it begins to feel like we talk about nothing but the weighty concerns of life. I feel myself getting mired down in the heaviness of it all. The craziness of our schedule.

I think about our first kiss thirteen years ago in that trashy little gay bar in Evansville, Indiana. Remember? The night you spent every penny I had on fruity little $1 shots served in test tubes. The night your nerves got the better of you and you had to pull over and throw up on the way home. The night we sat in Ann Leible's driveway after dropping her off and you looked at me, in all of your studly glory, and said, “So, are you coming back to my place?” Who knew our first kiss that night would eventually lead us to where we are today. Juggling a mortgage, car payments, two jobs, three kids, incompetent bosses, never-ending piles of laundry, and everything else that goes with the package. Right now as I type this, Sophie is literally laying across me. I can barely type because her skinny little legs are strewn across my keyboard. She wants to sit in my lap. She constantly wants to sit in my lap. The kids want every drop of energy we possess. They want every moment. They want every breath. They want every hug and every kiss. And of course, as their parents, we give it to them. We give them every bit of ourselves. This leaves us with very little for one another. Unfortunately, there is a limit to hugs. There is a quota on kisses. And right now, our entire supply seems to be going to the three little creatures living in our house.

I know our schedule is a necessary evil. I want so badly to yell, “Screw it!” I want us to quit our jobs, sell our house, pack up the kids, and run away together. Of course, since we haven't won the lottery (and probably will not win since we do not play the lottery), “Screw it!” may not be the best game plan. As a matter of fact, I don't see a workable game plan of any sort in our near future. We have to work. And, until the kids are all in school, we have to continue with our opposite work schedules. It sucks. It really does. But we have no choice but to plug along. I am confident we will look back on this one day when we are old and gray and surrounded by grandchildren, and we will laugh. We will laugh at the absurdity of everything we went through. However, I am not laughing right now. Try as I might, I haven't quite found the humor in it yet. Maybe one day...

So why write about something that can't be changed? Why dredge up problems with no solution? I don't know. I guess I am just tired of keeping it all to myself. I realize this letter is probably a waste of mental energy. Nothing is going to change, but I find some semblance of comfort in simply expressing the frustration that is the painfully obvious in both of us. It will get better, however. The kids will all go to school. We will get control of the things that feel so out of control right now. And we will find one another again.

In essence, I guess this letter is a love letter. I simply want to tell you that I love you. And I miss your face. And I can't wait until our “date night” this Friday. I want to reconnect. I want to buy fruity little shots and puke on the side of the road. I want to make you a nervous wreck. I want to go back to your place. I want to be your girl and I want you to be mine. There is no other person alive on this Earth who I would want to live this crazy life with. It's always been you.

Love,

Shannon