Romance Smackdown
Itt is Valentine’s Day, and there is a romance smackdown about to happen in my apartment between the two men in my life: my kindergarten son and my middle-aged husband. They are both pulling out all the stops to impress me. Skye, with her new interest in boys, doesn’t care about any of the romance going on at home. She’d always been a daddy’s girl, but now she’s grown out of it, and this—in addition to his new competition—is making Tyler a bit edgy.
Hayden has been working on his handmade valentine at school for almost a week. Tyler, worried about Hayden’s constant progress reports on the impending surprise, has told me that he has actually made a dinner reservation for the two of us. Wow, that hasn’t happened in ages.
The love competition has been brewing for a while. Tyler seems almost jealous of Hayden’s endless affection for me, and I think it’s inspiring him to outdo himself this year.
To be honest, Hayden’s dizzy mom-love takes the sting out of the waning romance between my husband and me. If I ever question my commitment to my husband, I know that there’s another guy just waiting patiently, in my own apartment, playing Star Wars video games. Hayden has made his intentions very clear: “Mommy, I want Daddy to take me to a Really Big Mommy Store . . . to buy you a diamond wing so I can mawy you.” Hayden is still working on his R’s with his speech therapist.
Tyler, seeking to trump Hayden in Valentine romance, buys me a beautiful pair of pearl earrings and takes me out for a lobster dinner—leaving Hayden at home with a babysitter. But that didn’t compare to Hayden’s present, a crooked red construction-paper heart with oversize, scrawled capital letters earnestly proclaiming his absolute devotion: “TO GERALYN LOVE HAYDEN.” As he offered me this handmade heart with all its imperfections, my heart was officially his. Maybe it was seeing that he’d handprinted my name that made me swoon. I thought about every love letter I’d ever received, how the boys had written my name, and how I’d analyzed their handwriting for clues to their personalities. Hayden’s bold letters spelled it out for me. His handwriting style revealed no agendas, no games, and no secrets. Just bold block letters he’d worked so hard to write. This guy wore his heart on his sleeve; he was actually giving it to me. Forget the bad boys I had chased, and the ones who’d played hard to get. Hayden is my new ideal, and as a bonus, I know exactly what this guy’s mommy issues are.
I think that deep down Tyler is happy that his son is so in love with me. After all, he was in love with his mom, and I took that to heart when I married him. Everyone knows that a man treats his wife like his mom. That seems harmonious and healthy. But lately Tyler has noticed how much better Hayden treats me than he does, and how Hayden courts me. And I have noticed how differently Tyler treats me now than he did in our courtship phase.
The comparisons are jarring:
Hayden runs to greet me with a kiss every time I walk in the door.
Tyler barely calls out a weak “hey” from his position on the sofa, without moving, to greet me.
Hayden insists on walking me out to the elevator every time I leave the apartment and gives me a kiss and a long hug. He releases me, staring straight into my eyes and begs, “Mommy, when will you be home?” Hayden holds the elevator door for me and says, “Ladies forst.” He is still having a hard time pronouncing his vowels properly.
Tyler lets the door hit me.
Hayden is more adorable and our love is new and exciting. I am much more “in love” with Hayden. The “in love” thing is a dangerous condition; some have likened being in love to a brain’s being on opiates. Tyler and I have been together nearly eighteen years, so there is a certain love fatigue that’s setting in, so different from the “in love” phase.
In couple’s therapy, I tell my therapist that my romance with Hayden has ruined my husband for me. That Hayden has made me believe in romantic love again. He notices everything good about me, unlike my husband, who only seems to notice what is wrong.
Hayden tells me, “Mommy, you look so stywish,” and he’ll always check me over approvingly before I’m headed out.
Tyler will say, “Did you brush your hair? Why are you wearing that?” My husband will always find a flaw on the way out to a party.
Hayden will snuggle up against me at night, with his Bun-Bun stuffed rabbit and blanket between us, content just to cuddle with a sweet smile on his face. I turn my back on Tyler to cuddle with Hayden, and Tyler says, “How come you never cuddle me anymore?” Tyler can’t just cuddle without wanting something more. And he gets grumpy: There are Legos all over the place, the dishwasher hasn’t been unloaded, and I didn’t bring the mail up. Such a huge turn-on!
Hayden will save some of his snack for me and bring it home after school.
Hayden doesn’t want anything from me except an occasional Oreo and a Star Wars Lego set. He doesn’t want to change me, and thinks that I am perfect. He needs me in ways that make me feel powerful, not vulnerable. And no Austrian-crystal belt or even my diamond engagement ring could ever compare to the sight of Hayden, hunched in his little school cubby, waiting for me to pick him up.
The love I have for Hayden and the change in my relationship with my husband has me so confused about love. I miss the wooing stage with my husband. But I know that I’ve changed too.
When Hayden coughs, it sounds adorable and I play Florence Nightingale. “Poor baby,” I coo. I let Hayden cough on my face all night, and I gently wipe the phlegm off his face and mine.
When Tyler coughs, I demand he cover his mouth; I duck as if he is contagious, like I want to wear an H1N1 mask for viral protection.
When Hayden farts, I think it’s adorable. When Tyler has skid marks in his underwear, it bothers me so much that I hate to think of my laundry even having to mingle with his in the same hamper.
When Hayden takes one bite of a pickle and puts the pickle back in the jar, I have no problem and might even finish it myself. When Tyler does that, I consider it contamination.
When Hayden aims for the potty, he often misses and leaves a trail. It is so cute to think of his tiny stream of glittering pee-pee arching up like a rainbow and just missing the bowl. When Tyler misses the bowl, I request him to Clorox.
When Hayden leaves the toilet seat up, I always put it down for him and don’t say anything. It’s so heavy that I worry he might crush his little fingers if he tries to put it down himself. When Tyler leaves the toilet seat up, I make a point of calling him in to the bathroom to reprimand him.
I am caught between two worlds of desire. One is mommy and one is wife, yet both strangely make me feel that I am not quite enough for either. When it comes to acknowledging my husband’s desire, I am not a cheerleader. Because what makes me satisfied now is just getting kisses on the cheek from my son. Even after I know he has picked his nose just before that kiss. That is somehow more pleasing than any other kisses I got from all the boys I ever kissed.
But my love for Hayden and Tyler is so intertwined: Without this man, I wouldn’t have my little one. Hayden is so smart and funny. He’s original. He’s caring. Hayden is the Tyler I met and fell in love with, and they have the same dimples when they smile.
· · · ·
On my second date with Tyler, we went out for brunch near the hospital where he was working as a surgical resident. He’d been on the breast cancer rotation in his general surgery training, and he told me the story of a patient he had just treated. He couldn’t get her out of his mind.
“She didn’t speak English very well. I speak broken Spanish and I figured out that she had a lump in her breast and it was growing. She had been to two other clinics and they told her that she was too young to have breast cancer. But I was worried about the lump. So I did a biopsy and it was breast cancer. When I did the mastectomy, the cancer had spread. It was too late.” His voice dropped and his eyes got teary. “The worst part was that she had come in with a little boy. . . .” I started to cry too. “Sorry if this is too depressing. . . .” He reached across the table to grab my hands and squeeze them hard. “There’s this amazing woman who works on the breast service. She’s a social worker and she’ll sit for hours with patients who are going through a diagnosis. She helps them so much, much more than I ever can. It’s pretty amazing what she does for these patients. You have to meet her.”
I respected how Tyler loved working in the clinic, and how much he wanted to help people by being a doctor. I loved that he had a pager. It was annoying that it would always beep during our dates, but to me it meant that he was a part of a bigger world. He was responsible and devoted. It didn’t hurt that Tyler’s blue eyes matched his blue surgical scrubs and his shoulder muscles were bulging against the sleeves. It didn’t hurt that this humanitarian was a major hunk. There were a lot of things making me fall in love with this guy. He seemed so grown up—I was only twenty-two, hoping to go to graduate school for journalism, and he was actually saving lives. I pictured him performing a mastectomy, and how sad and complicated it would be for this young man of twenty-six to remove a young woman’s breast in surgery. I had always thought of surgeons as being so steely, like the scalpels they used, but this guy was crying about a patient he couldn’t help. The fact that he wanted me to meet this social worker he admired so much meant he respected women, and he wanted to share with me something powerful about his job, not only the medical part, but the hope.
Years later, the story Tyler had told me about the young patient with advanced breast cancer would save my life. Eerily, I had my mastectomy the day after I turned twenty-eight, the age of the woman he had treated. It was Tyler who got me to start performing breast exams. I didn’t know anyone with breast cancer, but he’d name all my friends and then say, “One in eleven of them will get breast cancer. It’s an epidemic.”
As he spent more time in the hospital than he did with me, because of his training, I could see that the stress of taking care of patients and the lack of sleep could be overwhelming. One day we were at the movies and a patient kept paging Tyler about his pain after surgery. Tyler was moody and distracted; there never seemed to be a moment when he wasn’t taking care of someone or something at the hospital.
“Why don’t you reassure him?” I suggested. “Tell him you’re sorry he’s in pain, and that you hope he feels better soon.”
“That’s exactly how I feel, but you really think saying that will make a difference?”
Tyler took my advice, and the patient stopped calling. Tyler was soon ending every call with a patient, “I’m sorry about your pain and I hope you feel better soon.” I knew that he respected and trusted me. He listened and that meant so much. It felt like we were a team, supporting each other.
When he proposed to me in 1991, on a freezing night in New York City, he had somehow hidden the ring, champagne, and champagne glasses under his overcoat. He had chosen the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. We were in a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park. Snowflakes were falling, and the driver had two glowing plastic roses on his carriage. It felt like we were on a movie set, and after Tyler told me he wanted to spend every moment with me for the rest of our lives, he suggested we smash our champagne glasses.
“This moment can never be undone,” he said.
We could see our breath on that freezing night. I can still remember the heat I felt in his kiss, against the icy air. I can still remember the shiny glass shards scattered on the cement.
We went to Italy for our honeymoon, in 1992. We kissed so much it was hard to eat the freshly made pasta that was cooked to a texture that wasn’t just al dente—it was perfetto, with sauces I had never tried before, like salmon Gorgonzola. The wine in Italy didn’t give me a hangover; they say it’s because it has fewer sulfites, but I think it was because everything was different in Italy. It was a language of amore, and we were fluent. We looked across the table at each other, eating our fresh pasta Gorgonzola, drinking our sulfite-free wine, and I couldn’t believe how much Tyler loved me. The candlelight only seemed to accentuate his deep blue eyes, which perfectly matched the warm Mediterranean waters. Those Mediterranean-blue eyes were warm and kind, and he only had Mediterranean eyes for me.
It was as if I spoke opera. Every thought, every question, was a declaration of love and passion, uttered in sweet soprano. I remembered from my music classes that the soprano took the highest part, which usually encompassed the melody. We were in harmony; he was a sexy baritone, but a sweet one. Everything I said was a lovely aria, sung to him. He answered, providing accompaniment, only after I had sung. The aria went something like:
“My dear husband, you are so handsome, what’s for dinnerrrrrrrrrrrrr?”
He tilted his head slightly and then sang back.
“Oh, beautiful wife, whatever you want, your wish is my pleasurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre!”
Everything around us was art, and the colors and scale amazed us. Especially the statue of David, that masterpiece of Renaissance sculpture: seventeen marble feet of standing male nude. Although the statue represents the biblical David, I thought his body looked like Tyler’s. My man, all of five feet eight inches, seemed to dwarf the huge statue, and looking at David made me feel a flush for Tyler. Priceless statue of a biblical warrior hero? Sorry, I choose Tyler. I squeezed his hand while our tour guide explained more about David versus Goliath. I just kept thinking about David versus Tyler. No contest!
I can’t remember the way we kissed on our honeymoon. I want to go back to Italy to find out again. The only Italian in my life these days is delivery pizza with a map of Italy on the box. Venezia is so far gone. I want to be sitting next to my husband in a gondola, making out and cuddling him, holding him like we’ll never want to stop, even if the boat capsizes. I want to eat Italian food every night for dinner.
· · · ·
The operas we used to sing have become couple’s therapy sessions, Tyler and me sitting in separate chairs, across the room from each other, trying to figure out how to find common ground. I can’t remember the last time we held hands. We have become like other couples we saw on our honeymoon: Married many years, they could sit through a five-course dinner without uttering a single word except to the waiter, usually requesting more vino. Back then we had so much to talk about, and we were appalled that they had nothing to talk about. I think of those older Italian couples now, and I think maybe they were being polite, like, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say it at all.” Why do marriages go from dinners filled with witty conversations and kisses to silent standoffs? Theoretically, we should have so much more to say to each other now after so many years together and so many more things in common, like our kids.
On the last day of our honeymoon we wandered into a traveling exhibit of art by Salvador Dalí. The curator, with a French accent, caught us staring at one particular painting. She must have seen us holding hands, and maybe she thought we were an easy target for a romantic story. We were on our honeymoon, or luna di miele in italiano. It was August, and Italy was crawling with newlyweds on their lune di miele.
“Oooooo la la. You have found my absolute favorite print in the entire exhibition. This is Gala, Dalí’s wife. This painting was inspired by the first time Dalí ever saw Gala. He saw her back. It was magnifique, parfait, and he thought to himself, I must have this back. It is pure luuuuuuv.”
I was totally in love with every particle of Tyler, so I understood how someone could fall madly in love with someone else just from loving her back. Every bit of Tyler—even his back, lightly freckled, muscular—was dreamy.
“And then Dalí approached Gala, and the rest is history!”
She continued talking with her French accent about all the unique aspects of the print. How Gala was so pure he could see through her, and this was represented by her hollowed-out reflection in the picture. Eros, the Greek god of love, was in the picture too.
The more she talked, the more I realized that I had to have this print because it represented the marriage of “love and desire,” as the curator explained, the exact combination I felt for Tyler.
She continued to taunt us with details of the strange but inspired love they shared. We were mesmerized as she explained how Dalí introduced himself to her.
Legend has it Dalí prepared himself for the encounter in a totally symbolic way. He cut himself while shaving his armpit, so he smeared his body with his own blood, mixed with fish, glue, goat dung, and oil. He accessorized with a pearl necklace and a geranium behind his ear. Gala was smitten.
“Dalí had so many pet names for her. Galushka, Gradiva, Oliva for the oval shape of her face and the color of her skin, Oliueta, Oriueta, Buribeta, Buriueteta, Suliueta, Solibubuleta, Oliburibuleta, Ciueta, Liueta. And my favorite is Lionette, because Dalí said that when she got angry Gala roared like the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion!”
I needed this print. I wanted Tyler to think of me as his muse. I was amazed that Dalí thought that Gala was irresistible, even when she was angry.
That curator with her French accent talking about true love and passion really was a tonic. I wanted to be like Dalí and Gala, maybe minus the goat dung and fish and blood. We parted ways with a passionate kiss as I went to shop and Tyler wanted to see more art.
We had discussed whether we should buy the reproduction, but it was expensive: The gallery representing Dalí’s estate had stamped it with his name and used high-quality paper and ink. We had wedding money, but the purchase seemed too decadent, even though it would be a honeymoon keepsake we would treasure.
I went back to the hotel to take a nap, regretting not buying the print. Tyler woke me up with kisses and a large cardboard tube.
It was Gala, rolled up, to take home to New York City.
“Promise me you’ll always tell me what you want,” Tyler said. “Don’t ever settle in our life together. I know you wanted that print.” I was so blown away by the romance of the gesture.
· · · ·
When we got Gala to New York, my uncle in the framing business recommended an art framing shop.
“Let me look,” said Patrick, a very distinguished type of older gentleman who wore a silk pocket scarf in his blazer as he unrolled the print in his frame shop.
“Ah . . . Gala!”
I was so excited that he knew about Gala. It just added to my joy in having her. She must have been more famous than I realized.
“I worked with her in the theater in New York City.”
Tyler and I couldn’t believe our good fortune, meeting someone who had actually known the woman in our print.
He started to take out samples of all the gold frames that would match the gold-flourish details Dalí had painstakingly added to decorate Gala. Patrick paused and looked directly into my eyes.
“She was a real bitch, you know. She drove him crazy, not in the good way.”
· · · ·
It’s hard to figure out the imperceptible changes that add up to where we are now. If I were to create a flipbook, starting with our drunk-on-love wedding pictures and ending with our couples-therapy faces now, would I be able to find the moment where did the change happened? When did we stop being a team, and start taking opposing sides about almost everything? Why is the beginning picture so different from the latest one? If my engagement ring could talk, it might warn me that it wouldn’t sparkle as much after almost twenty years, and it would definitely look smaller as my finger and pant size expanded.
Our big twentieth anniversary was only a few weeks away. Tyler had sort of blown off the past few anniversaries. They weren’t nearly as romantic as the honeymoon, and I was dreading the inevitable letdown. Tyler had stopped buying me jewelry because he claimed I always returned it. We would make a romantic date night, and inevitably a kid would get sick.
I remember when it was all so perfect. I remember when we celebrated every month we were together. I remember when it was hard, when I was in chemo, and we even tried to make it perfect then. Tyler had taken me out to lunch for a romantic date, but I was so tired I fell asleep on my plate and got quiche in my hair. At least we tried.
I remember when we spent so much time choosing the perfect gifts and cards for each other. I remember when I googled a list of anniversary presents given for each year, as an incentive for Tyler. Technically, I reminded him, we were on china. What would we do with fine china these days? We heated up our meals in the microwave. There were a lot of take-out containers and macaroni and cheese, and none of the fine dining we did when we were dating. China felt so impractical for our current status; platinum was the modern gift for a twentieth anniversary. Tyler reminded me that my wedding band was platinum, and that I didn’t wear it anymore, so why buy another platinum ring? I had outgrown my ring. I seemed to have outgrown the romantic symbol of that beautiful platinum ring too. We had become so practical as life plodded on. Life had become predictable, so far away from the Tuscan hills of Italy. There was so much paperwork, school forms to send in, bills that arrived every day.
· · · ·
We had scheduled a meeting with our insurance agent for the night before our anniversary. She was reviewing our policies, and Tyler said, “I’ve been thinking about it. I want to buy Geralyn a long-term-care policy.” Our insurance agent looked at Tyler and looked at me. She had helped me to get a life insurance policy after my breast cancer. She knew how much this request meant. Not only did Tyler think that I would live long, but that I might even outlive him. He wanted to make sure someone would take care of me. She pulled out a stack of forms. “This policy is about to be discontinued because it’s so good that they’re losing money on it. This policy will cover Geralyn until she’s a hundred and twenty. That is a very thoughtful gift.”
They say diamonds are forever, but I think a long-term-care policy actually might be the closest I’ll ever get to forever. I want to live until I am 120 and I think, for the first time ever, that maybe—just maybe—I’ll die of old age instead of cancer. Tyler had always believed that I was cured and I would live. I sort of resented him for that, because it felt like he was trivializing my pain and fear. But maybe he really did believe I would be okay. Spending money on a long-term-care policy was quite a vote of confidence.
I was almost tempted to ask our policy adviser what would happen if I died young and didn’t need the long-term care. Would Tyler get a refund? I didn’t want him to waste the money, but then I realized it was a good bet to place: a bet on living so long that I’d need assistance to keep living. I liked the ring of it. I liked thinking of myself as a Long-Term-Care Policy Holder.
I love my husband. He always promised to take care of me, and I’m touched that he is worried about what will happen to me when I get old. I’d never thought of a long-term-care policy as a romantic gift: It’s a different type of love from the honeymoon-opiate type, but it’s fine. It is long-term, like the health-care coverage. It is more solid and thoughtful than any set of china.
My relationship with my son is evolving too, into a more mature love. The other day, when I told Hayden something, the boy who used to hang on my every word said, “Mom, who asked you your opinion?”
Actually, Hayden is having an affair and cheating on me . . . with Tyler! He has left the Oedipal phase and entered the “identification” phase, and he’s totally besotted with his dad. He sleeps tucked under Tyler’s arm every night. I am no longer between them; Hayden is now between my husband and me. I nurse my heartbreak, and there is a small upside to his new infatuation with his dad. Seeing my little guy look up to my big guy has sort of shamed me into remembering why I fell in love with Tyler in the first place. Watching Hayden absolutely idolize my husband and want to be him so desperately has made me put on my rose-colored glasses again for Tyler. I made the right choice. He’s a good man and a great father. He’s taught Hayden how to walk, how to sled, how to ski, and a lot of other things too. Hayden wants to do everything Tyler does, exactly the same way.
He’s started leaving the toilet seat up and even started criticizing me at the grocery store. “Mom, why do you think we need more milk? You never finish what we have and then we end up throwing it out.”
It was true love all around.