For the first fifteen months of my boys’ lives I couldn’t help but wonder, “What if…?” That’s a terrible game to play, and not good for the psyche. Aside from the obvious fact that I wouldn’t have the pleasure of knowing two such adorable little boys, what would that have done to my marriage?
In this alternate universe I envision us rehashing the issue every few years. I see my husband, a tad resentful as I, and the unwilling partner, exercise my power over his ability to reproduce. Likely there are no arguments, only joking at my expense and the occasional barb directed towards me. We stay in our urban environment, opting for private school for our daughter. He resents the lack of space available for him to play music and record, as well as his unfulfilled desire to barbecue. We enjoy the freedom of dinners out, concert going and easy day trips. We’re happy, but he ends up the author of this essay instead of me.
These are the real compromises of marriage. They never even crossed my mind those many years ago when I fell desperately in love and couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him. There simply are some situations in a relationship where compromise is not the equivalent of balance, and that is the challenge of happily ever after.
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