The Reluctant Daddy

All marriages are happy.  It’s the living together afterward that causes all the trouble.  ~Raymond Hull

This Christmas, out of disgust for all things material (frugality is the new black) I decided not to give my husband George anything of material value as a gift. Being from a ‘modest’ (shit-kicker) background, he seemed not to care, and was pleased to receive the short story  you will find in this post as his special Christmas present.  Naturally, I also requested nothing of material value for Christmas and was horrified to have my wishes utterly and completely respected.  Next year it’s back to mall where we belong!

I’m often asked what I love most about George.

I’ m taking the question slightly out of context, as the statement preceding this question is usually something like, “George is such a wonderful guy and you’re such an asshole. It’s easy to see why people can’t stand you, but everyone can find something to love about George. What do you love most about George?”

I’ve ceased to be offended by these declarative statements and their passive-aggressive, follow-up questions, as I have come to accept that in our long, tortured relationship, I will forever be known as ‘Tod-the-dark’ to his ‘George-the-light.’ If we lived in Middle Earth, George would be an anointed member of the ring fellowship (He works extremely well with others), and I would be one of those putrid, smelly cave trolls.   Ours is a relationship of opposites, and as cliché and as that may sound, opposites blindly, painfully and with very little forethought attract.

Years ago, when George and I were young, beautiful and unencumbered by the life-sapping, soul-deadening ‘joy’ of parenting, we decided to take a ‘pre-baby’ trip to France to celebrate (mourn) the impending loss of our freedom.  We arrived in Paris to find the city sweltering and teeming with tourists. To the ultra-chic French, I must have looked quite absurd strolling the streets of Paris in my too-tight, love handle-enhancing ‘wife beater’ undershirt and Abercrombie and Fitch cargo shorts extolling the virtues of Parisian architecture to my dead-eyed lover who politely listened as one might to a doddering, senile old man.

After a particularly debilitating day of sight seeing and pseudo-intellectual pontificating, George and I decided to take a stroll to the pont neuf.  As the day begrudgingly gave way to night, we stood in the middle of the bridge and stared into the murky waters of the seine. Like many of the lovers who surrounded us, I took George into my arms and kissed him dramatically.  I reasoned that a murderous old troll like me, who has for too long dwelt beneath bridges, rarely, if ever, has the opportunity to snog an anointed member of the fellowship. I intended to make the most of it!

We left Paris the following afternoon and headed to the picturesque wine regions of the south. Like the great navigators Magellan or ponce de leon, George had mapped out our circuitous route perfectly, and even volunteered to selflessly drive the lumbering, 5-speed ‘Smart Car’ we rented. As we plodded along, I sat in the passenger seat holding George’s gear-shifting hand tightly. Despite my zeal to document every ancient chateau, graceful meadow, and verdant forest we passed I remember very little of our journey, save for the love I had for him. The only memory that survives, is George’s shining face illuminated beautifully by the Smart Car’s dashboard as the day again surrendered to night.