We go out as often as we can, but I honestly prefer hanging out at the house with the kids. He keeps asking “would you marry me?” and I keep ducking the question. It’s too soon, he’s too still-married, please stop asking. Okay, if I answer will you NEVER ASK ME AGAIN? Then yes, I quite possibly WOULD marry you. If I actually believed in marriage. Privacy is impossible at our respected homes, so he occasionally gets a hotel room. It is a source of….not argument but something close to it. He doesn’t understand my general “hotel rooms squick me out” attitude (if I didn’t clean it, how do I KNOW it’s clean??!!??). But it *is* nice to be able to snuggle up and enjoy each others company.
Unease rumbles through my gut, punching me periodically. The things around the house he said he can do? are not done. Nor have we discussed WHEN they would be done. These are not small things, either: weatherproofing a window, changing the oil (he didn’t want me spending $30 at the quickchange) and replacing the brake pads on my van. Blowing the leaves. But he does go with me to select a new washer and dryer. And then a dishwasher. It’s odd, but nice.
We do not spend Thanksgiving together (he says he did not drive and ended up going to several relatives homes) but he does manage to come over on Christmas day.
The boys and I go to his house for New Year’s dinner. His house, his mama’s house is chock full of breakables. I don’t relax until the children go outside to play. He notices I’m giving myself a headache and directs me to get the bottle of ibuprofen from his desk. Next to the bottle of ibuprofen? a bottle of vicodin. I pull him to the side and ask about it – at no point did he tell me about this. “This?” he smiles condescendingly at me. “That is codeine. The muscle relaxer I take.”