Jen and Sarah, the wonderful women of Momalom, are hosting the Half-Drunk Challenge, a blogging event in which they have dared their readers to "put together your most daring, bravest and, if you so choose, most drunken writing experience." Dozens of writers have responded to the dare with truth. Truth about love, sex, pain, and parenthood.
Earlier this week I posted my own entry, "The Sense of Memory." Today, I have agreed to host the writing of an anonymous writer. Disclaimer: The following words are not my own, but I am pleased to offer Motherese as a space for another writer to say what it is that he or she feels the need to say.
Confession: I have, in the past, regularly Google Stalked the first person I ever slept with. Call him H. This probably isn’t true confession to you…I mean, I’m fairly certain that “Google Stalk” could be one of the newest additions to the Webster Dictionary for 2010. And maybe you’ve Google stalked someone already today. (And for the love of all things holy, have you used Google maps? It is the true crown jewel of Google stalking). But, it is a confession because I’ve never told ANYONE. Not my mother…who never knew him well enough to see why I loved him. Not my best friend, who knew him well enough that she would only raise a dubious eyebrow if I mentioned my…ahem…"investigative work.”
But back to the boy. The first night I met him, he got me drunk on Screwdrivers (hello, 1995!) and kissed me at my front door on the first true chilly night of autumn. In the end, he moved back to his hometown to run a hardware store with his parents; I stayed in college. I met someone else. Call him M. I loved him immediately. Even though I knew he wasn’t the type of boy who kissed outside on chilly nights…far too practical for silliness.
I married M. H came to the wedding. In the receiving line, he whispered with hot breath into my ear, “I think I made a mistake.” He kissed me in the sweet spot behind my ear on the back of neck and strode out of the church. It was my Hollywood moment.
And if you could move pass that, I raise my glass of Wal-Mart wine in your honor.
I kept up with news of him, as I could in my newlywed, pre-Google days. When Google came and EVERYONE was using Google, he was my first search string. Even home on maternity leave, I would periodically check, because I had to know. It was random. He was in community groups. He bought a house.
And then he sent me a Facebook request. And I accepted. He turned out to be a pastor. WTF. Married to a scrapbooker named Shelly Ann. WTF. Pre-diabetic, he watches his sugars. Double WTF.
Because the boy I knew then was SO. VERY. UNHOLY. He drank and smoked and did things to me that still make me blush, even ½ drunk.
I’ve had moments, especially when marriage gets hard, of wondering if I don’t still love him. Oh, but Facebook, you social networking tool with your status updates and photo albums, you taught me I don’t love him still…only the idea of him. He makes me think of when I was young and had a fake ID and was fairly certain I’d conquer most of the world by the time I was 30. I didn’t consider that I’d have children that became the center of my world, that I’d shrug off my stretchmarks on my tummy, that I’d consider getting my roots done “my me time”, that the boy I did marry would start to get gray in his hair and some days I’d love him less and some days I’d love him more, but that I would love him every day.
We, H and I, have never said a word to each other on Facebook. It’s an unwritten rule perhaps. I almost have commented or “liked” a few times in the past, but what’s the point (and I don’t want a scrapbooker named Shelly to be pissed at me, as she looks like the type that would…). But I won’t unfriend him. I need to know. I need to know that he was wrong for that one small minute in that church all those years ago. And when he posts the annual pics of baptizing his flock in the local river (not kidding), you totally know I’ll be looking.
Please feel free to comment below on this anonymous entry in the Momalom Half-Drunk Challenge.