My “yes dear” relationship
Sean and I were in my bed, naked, propped up by many pillows (not the frilly kinds), laptops on our laps (doh!), trying to coordinate custody schedules so we could figure out how we’d spend the few time slots in the upcoming weeks that we were both free.
“Mia asked us to join her and Rex for dinner on the 16th,” I said.
“Huh, that’s when that band I told you about is in town. I was hoping we’d see them.”
“Oh, baby, I really want to see them, but we haven’t been ‘social’ in, like, forever and I told her we’d love to join them but that I’d have to confirm with you, which pretty much means I told her we’d be there. I mean …”
Even as the words came out, I gagged. No wonder why guys don’t understand women — I can barely understand myself!
But Sean, verbiage trouper that he is, jumped right in, and for the next few minutes, we went back and forth — dinner, concert, dinner, concert.
Finally, he sighed and said, “Yes dear.” 
“Oh, no, no, no! You can’t pull that crap on me!”
“What?”
“You said, ‘Yes dear!’ That is the worst thing you’ve ever said to me!”
“And, what’s wrong with ‘Yes dear’?”
“‘Yes dear’ is what unhappily married, hen-pecked men say so their bitchy nagging wives will shut up and leave them alone!”
He laughed. “Your theory has as many holes as a colander because, one, we’re not married, two, you’re not my wife and, three, I’m not unhappy or hen-pecked. However …”
Before he could get to whatever No. 4 was, I jumped on top of him and held his arms down, which made us both laugh, which somehow lead to me kissing his chest, which somehow lead to me kissing all sorts of places places as I slowly migrated south …
… And, on the 16th, we dined with Mia and Rex.
Now, that’s the kind of surrendered “yes dear” man I can handle!
But, really — what to do about “yes, dear”? It’s as deadly a word combination as “We need to talk” or “I really like you … as a friend.”
Is “yes dear” a passive-aggressive way of checking out or is it the key to a happy relationship?
I guess it depends.
Even in the best relationships, there are always power struggles — he wants one thing, she wants another, now what? As someone famous once said — or maybe it was just someone’s father — you’re either going to be happy or right; what do you want?
Wait — you mean I can’t have both?!?!
Compromise is part of being a couple; it’s part of life, actually — work, school, dating, friendships. You’re not going to get everything you want, so deal! It’s like parenting a teenager — pick your battles … carefully.
Still, if one person is “yes, dearing” more than the other, I’d say there’s a problem. I don’t always want to be the one who’s compromising; I’m totally OK with the compromising part — I probably do that too well — but there’s a line between that and doormat.
I just hate those two words together. I’ve never wanted to be the “dear” part of that equation, never wanted to be the one who held the power to the point that the man I love would feel that he had to agree with me.
Even if it was obvious that I was right!
Sometimes, I’ve just wanted my guy to care as much as I do. But here’s one thing I’ve learned: Men don’t always care about the same things women care about, and even if they do, it’s not always in the same way.
They seem to have no problem with things that matter to us. I’ve seen The Kid wear dirty underwear or socks for an extra day — or none at all — rather than do laundry. This is the beauty of having a son — it’s a petri dish of manhood! You get to see men as they form!
But, yes dear?
I’d rather jump on top of Sean, gently hold him down and start kissing …
What do you think about “yes dear”?
My parents screwed up my life!
Sara looked upset when she finally showed up at the gym.
“What’s with you?”
“Ugh,” she said in disgust. “It’s not me. It’s my sister.”
Sara’s sister, four years older, is one of those people who always has some sort of drama going on — a breakup, financial ruin, an illness, a fight with her BFF, DUIs, a surgery, a job loss.
“What now?”
“She and Greg split up.”
“Oh, I though they already were split.”
“No, they got back together in February, but now he’s moved out, for good he says. He just can’t deal with her passive-aggressive crap anymore.”
“I don’t blame him; you hate it, too.” 
“I know. But now she’s on a rampage again about the affair and the divorce and blah, blah, blah.”
“She’s still blaming your Dad’s affair and your parents’ divorce when you were kids for her problems?”
“Yep.”
“She’s how old again?”
“53.”
“I thought you guys have the same parents …”
Sara rolled her eyes and shrugged as she popped her iPod earphones in and stepped on the treadmill.
I know affairs and divorce can often be devastating to kids — Trent has made it very clear to his dad and me how he feels about some of the stuff that’s gone down in our family. But he’s a teen; when you’re 53, shouldn’t you be past it? At some point, shouldn’t you have figured things out, or at least spent some serious time on a shrink’s couch, bought an Amazon-like warehouse of self-help books, been an audience member of the Dr. Phil show, hired a life coach, adjusted your chakras, consulted a psychic, sat zazen, found Jesus — something, anything, to help you get over your past?
You can’t blame your parents forever.
OK, some parents are pretty crappy — they abandon, they cheat and lie, they manipulate, they scream and smack; you know, the Mommy Dearest kinds. Then there are the ones who make the perv in “Silence of the Lambs” look like Mother Teresa in comparison — the abusers, the raging alcoholics, the ones who lock their kids in basements and feed them scraps.
We all can bitch about our parents, and we do. Just watch Oprah; wasn’t supermodel Naomi Campbell the latest one, blaming her mom for her anger, addictions and general infantile behavior?
But, what’s the point? We can’t undo the past and the more we obsess about how we didn’t get all that we wanted — and, yeah, maybe deserved — the more we hurt ourselves, and everything we’re trying to do and everyone we’re trying to love now.
When are we responsible for our own behaviors?
We may become legal when we’re 21; I say we become adults when we stop blaming our parents for screwing up our life.
My parents were far from perfect; they said and did hurtful things. I can still hear a lot of their fear messages — “you can’t …” “you shouldn’t …” — and even after they stopped saying those things, I started telling them to myself! Still, my folks gave me a lot. They were once kids who didn’t get everything they wanted for their parents, either. And, I know they meant well, even if they didn’t always deliver. I’m gonna cut them some slack for that.
We’re all walking around a little wounded.
The only thing we can change about the past is how we allow it to mess with us now. (Not to get all Buddhist on you … although I am from Northern California, and you know how we are).
And you know when I “got” it? When I became a mom myself.
Thank goodness my parents are still around and it wasn’t too late for me to thank them — yes, I have and still do — and to have compassion and forgiveness for them.
Which, by the way, The Kid will never have to stress about because I have done no wrong! (His dad? Hmm …) But, if I have (or, if he thinks I have, perception being reality and whatnot), well, at least I’m helping to keep a few shrinks in business; they can thank me later.
- Do you still blame your parents?
- What do you think about adults who can’t stop blaming their parents?
- How have you moved on from childhood hurts?
Photo © Marem – Fotolia.com
Woulda, coulda, shoulda
The Kid and I were on our way out Saturday night — he with his friends, me with Sean — when I caught a glimpse of him before he headed out the door.
He looked weird, even for a teenager.
“What’s that?”
“That what?”
“That, that thing on top of your head.”
“It’s a new beanie. Why?”
Why? He was heading out wearing something that made him look like a cross between a dweeby alien and Pippi Longstocking, the kind of thing that if anyone snaps a pic of him in it, he’ll look back one day and wonder, “And why, exactly, did I ever think I looked good in that?” — and he’s asking why?
I almost told him the truth, but, I didn’t. Moms of teenagers walk around on eggshells, anyway, so I wasn’t going to go there.
“Uh, you look nice, that’s why.” 
“Thanks, Mom! OK, see you later.”
“Have fun!” I said, but in my head I thought, if you can, looking the way you do!
And then I said a silent prayer that the girl of his dreams would show up another night, a beanieless night.
Sometimes I look at him and think, yep, there’s
a kid who’s perfectly OK making decisions
he’ll regret when he’s older.
But, don’t we all?
I certainly have had my share of fashion faux pas, especially in my hippie days although, honestly, the disco period wasn’t much better. Spandex and Lycra and jumpsuits, oh my! Most people want to reconnect with old high school pals on Facebook to rekindle friendships; I want to reconnect so I can pay them whatever it takes to destroy those pictures!
Then there were the eras of the Bad Hair— the Pixie cut; the experiment as a redhead; the perm; the other perm a few years after the first …
All of that is entertaining, actually, if somewhat horrifying. Real regrets, however, aren’t that easily laughed away — the times we hurt somebody or lied; when we unleashed our anger
or were passive-aggressive; when we were more interested in being right than understanding or held grudges beyond their expiration date; when we had sex when we really didn’t want to or didn’t respect someone who did; when we stood by and did nothing while others suffered or let our inflated expectations destroy relationships. All the times we promised we going to stop doing whatever self-destructing behavior we did, only to be outdone by one too many Lemon Drops. Sending that e-mail or making that phone call …
(Of course, we often — foolishly — think others will have regrets about us, like dumping us.) Sorry; life isn’t a Nick Hornby novel most of the time.
Or maybe our priorities were screwed up, and we didn’t do all the things we wanted to do out of fear or inertia. Darwin wished he’d spent more time reading poetry and listening to music, although I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what he regretted most when on his deathbed.
I have made a conscious effort not to live in regret. I’m made mistakes — many! — but the past is the past, right? Can’t undo it; just make amends, make changes and move on.
And I try to live life now consciously and purposefully so I won’t have anything to regret in the future, even though some researchers say that, compared with other emotions — anger, jealousy, disappointment, sadness — at least regret offers some positives; it can help us be better people in the future because we’re learned something about ourselves and we’re not going there again.
Yeah, well, maybe.
I’ve always believed that whatever happened in the past somehow got me to where I am now, and if I’m in a good place, well, what’s to regret?
Still, I am aware of my mistakes; one huge one, the rest not so huge. I don’t dwell on them, but I acknowledge them, and I have forgiven myself for not having the experience and understanding at the time.
- What do you regret?
- How have you learned from that?
- If you could live a part of your life over, what would you do?
- Do you dwell on past mistakes, or move on?
Photo © Angelika Bentin – Fotolia.com
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