What Crying During Sex Taught Me About a New Phase of My Marriage
Without room for longing, there wasn’t room for celebrating our reunion
A few weeks ago, my daughters and I were waiting for my husband to come home from a work trip. As I started to serve dinner, my kids asked if Papa would be back soon, hoping to eat with him. Moments later, we heard the familiar footfalls in the stairwell, the thunk of heavy luggage on the landing. We threw open the door before he could dig out his keys.
My husband picked up our girls in turns. They pressed their little bodies against his, closed their eyes, and laid their heads on his shoulder. After he set them down, he wrapped me in his arms. I kissed him and his cheek was rough with stubble. When he took off his hat, I brushed my hand over the fuzz on his normally shaved head. He’d been gone five weeks. I was so happy to have him back.
We weren’t intimate right away. We were both exhausted on the first night; him from travel, me from so many days of solo-parenting. When we did have sex the following night, something funny happened: tears sprang to my eyes.
My husband was back in our bed. His hands, which are almost twice the size of mine, held my head, held my body. I felt relief and reconnection, and a sense of affirmation that my husband had come home. That he still loved me.
It might seem a little crazy. After all, we weren’t reuniting after a fight or a trial separation, just a business trip. I didn’t talk about what I was feeling, nor did I give myself over to crying (hey, we were having sex!), but I also didn’t wipe away my tears. The nice thing about being married for ten years is that you can have a moment and not be embarrassed about it or have to explain it. It can just be.
Later, though, I wondered what had been happening. I thought I was more than fine while my husband was gone. But then I cried during sex. That had never happened before. I realized some part of me must have been feeling abandoned, even though intellectually I knew this wasn’t true.
The nice thing about being married for ten years is that you can have a moment and not be embarrassed about it or have to explain it. It can just be.
Our feelings don’t always make sense. Luckily, when our brains fail us, our bodies often come through. Mine was telling me I hadn’t been doing as great as I thought.
My husband travels frequently for work and while I want him to be good at his job, I’ll admit to occasionally feeling resentful. A few times, I’ve been short with him when he comes home, and when I catch myself I’ll say, “Sorry, I guess I was feeling a little mad at you for not being here, but I’m glad you’re back!”
When I cried during sex, it was the first time I had felt abandoned but I could have seen it coming. This trip was the start of a challenging new routine. My husband is transitioning to a position in northern Saskatchewan, while we’ll be staying in Paris. He’ll be away for five weeks, then home for three, on repeat.
We arrived at this decision together. I want him to have this opportunity to grow in his career; I’m on board to be the sole parent when he’s in Canada. But I’ve been so focused on the positive that I forgot to make space for my feelings about the difficult parts. Namely, I love my husband and like having him around. I miss him when he’s gone.
Yet, these vulnerabilities have brought me to another realization: I still believe our family is strong enough to support his new career move, and if I believe that, I also have to believe we are strong enough to be sad when we want to be.
Now my husband is on another work trip, and I’ve been saying things to my kids like, “I’m really missing Papa this morning. Anyone else feeling that way?” While I’ve consistently told our girls it’s alright for them to miss their dad, now I’m trying to show them by sharing my own feelings. And I’m trying to make sure they know their dad misses them, too.
Historically, my husband is about as likely to say “I miss you,” as he is to come home with a tattoo (which is to say, highly unlikely). I’ve even had the amusing experience of telling him I missed him when I was traveling with the kids and not hearing him say it back. When pressed, he said, “Oh, well, you know, I’m actually enjoying having some time on my own.” A totally fair sentiment that I still gave him a hard time about. “Just say you miss me, too!” I said, laughing. So I’ve started saying it for him. “Papa is happy about his new job, but he doesn’t like being away from you,” I tell our girls. Or, I prompt them to do it for themselves. “Do you think Papa misses you?” Of course, they do.
The kids have begun telling their dad they miss him during their daily phone calls. If one of our daughters is so sad she can hardly begin speaking when she answers the phone, I’ll encourage her to say how she’s feeling. If they have a chatty, easy call, they sign off cheerily, “I miss you, Papa. I love you. I hope you have a good day at work.”
Since then, the unexpected has happened. My husband, my sweet, overly-honest, happy-to-have-time-to-himself husband, has started saying it back. He tells the kids, he tells me. We are all saying all the time, “I miss you! I miss you!”
As I’ve allowed myself to feel more sadness over my husband’s absence, I’m also feeling more excitement as I anticipate his homecoming. When I’m up late, folding laundry while Seinfeld plays in the background, I’ll fantasize about snuggling on the couch with my husband, the chores already finished because there are two parents to carry the load.
My rosy outlook and positive attitude gave me the courage to say yes to this new opportunity for my family, but it clouded the larger picture. Without room for longing, there wasn’t room for celebrating our reunion.
Elizabeth Joubert is a Californian who was a marine biologist before trading her wetsuit for pen and paper. She lives in Paris with her husband and two daughters. In a cruel twist of fate, she is gluten-free and can’t enjoy a great baguette.
