For some reason, I
expected my husband to change from the person he was while I was dating him to
someone who knew, instinctively and explicitly, what it was that I needed to be happy-even if I didn't know what I
I expected him to sweep me off of my feet, to toil on
ceaselessly with his own work, yet bow down at my feet, because after all,
wasn't I the one slaving away caring for our
children? Didn't every blog and article I read tell me how hard child-rearing
was? Didn't I deserve to be the having-it-all martyr
My friends, my thinking was toxic-and it almost
destroyed my marriage. It got to the point where we were cold, steely-faced
strangers in our own house, barely saying words that weren't full of bitter
resentment or ending in exhausting fight after fight.
I wasn't happy. And I
expected him to fix that. Because he was my husband. And that's what
husbands do, right? They are the Prince Charmings that sweep us off of our feet
and make us happy forever and ever. The End.
Except that it's a
complete myth. My husband couldn't make me happy-only I could do that.
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