Space And Tenderness
By Jennifer Batchelor
@jennbatchelor
I slam the cabinet shut with more force than necessary. A muffled crash comes from within as the remaining cutting boards topple over. I pluck an onion from the vegetable bowl on the counter and begin slicing it vigorously, daring my eyes to water in response.
The source of my pique sits on the living room couch, playing a word game on his phone and studiously ignoring the bangs, rattles, and muttered swearing that come from his wife in the next room.
Twenty minutes earlier, things had been fine. It was a normal Sunday and we were beginning the imperceptible slide from late afternoon to evening. Jon and I sat facing each other on the couch, lost in our own pursuits (book for me, game for him) when I nudged him with my foot.
“Hey, remember when I said I was working on a girls’ weekend plan with the Annas?” I asked, and he nodded without looking at me.
“The Annas” are Anna Jordan and Anna Quinlan, two dear friends who live at separate ends of California. Our bond is mostly forged through text messages and Voxer since we live so far apart, but we’ve been tossing out ideas for a weekend hang for the better part of six months, potential dates thrown out and then scrapped due to work schedules, kid sports, and the other trappings of adulthood. One of us suggested a Galentine’s weekend and by some miracle all three of our schedules were clear. None of us are really “Valentine’s people” and thought nothing of being away from our significant others on that particular day. It was just another weekend, as far as we were concerned, and we assumed our husbands would feel likewise.
“We’re looking at February 14-16 … do you have any issues with that weekend?” I said.
It’s important to note that Jon’s normal reaction to any social plan I make is a casual “sure, Love; sounds good. No problem.” Whether I’m at dinner with girlfriends or out of town for a work retreat, there are no panicked, “when will you be home?” texts. He is always encouraging me to go and do and, when my little introverted, homebody heart takes him up on it, his only words are ever “take your time.” So I am expecting him to mumble a “sure, sounds good,” without lifting his eyes to meet mine.
Instead, he looks up at me with raised eyebrows and a penetrating stare. I have his full attention.
“You’re going to take a girls’ trip on Valentine’s weekend?” he asks. I notice the slight emphasis and set down my book.
“Well … yeah. That’s what we’re talking about anyways. I mean, we don’t really do Valentine’s so I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
“I didn’t say it was a big deal.”
“So it’s okay?”
“I mean, if that’s what you want to do, I’m not going to stop you.”
“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement of my plans. What about it bothers you?”
The conversation spiraled downward from there. It was clear that Jon had reservations about me planning this trip, but he wouldn’t tell me what they were. I am used to being given carte blanche about my own plans and activities—the autonomy we each inherently need and offer easily to one another in most circumstances is one of my favorite things about our relationship.
I’d like to say that I immediately determined there must be strong emotions underneath his response and responded with sensitivity and understanding, but I did not. I was irritated and annoyed and primed for a fight, but you can’t have a fight with someone who isn’t willing to engage. Somewhere around the fifth time I asked Jon to tell me what bothered him about my plans only to be stonewalled with a shrug, I hissed, “well, let me know when you decide to use your words,” and stormed off to the kitchen to make dinner.
Which brings me to my cutting board and the onion I’m taking all my frustrations out on. I pause in my slicing, wipe my hands on a kitchen towel and grab my phone.
We may need to put a pin in our travel plans, I text the Annas. Jon appears to have some feelings about it that perhaps he’ll communicate in 7-10 business days.
No one gets this like I do, texts Anna Quinlan in response. Space and tenderness, JB.
Is telling him to use his words and storming off to make dinner the same thing? I ask in jest. But AQ’s words have me thinking. After all, one of the things that cemented our friendship early on was how similar her personality is to Jon’s. I’m convinced everyone should have a friend with the same emotional wiring as their spouse to breakdown disagreements and arguments with. She is forever reminding me that when Jon refuses to elaborate on an emotion or reaction, he’s not trying to be an ass. Sometimes he’s trying to find the right words or he’s waiting until the emotion is under control before talking about it. And this isn’t the first time she’s coached me that my job, in the meantime, is to meet him with space and tenderness. Not silent treatments. Not storming off. Not slammed cutting boards.
It’s essentially the same thing, of course—space to process—but it’s the shift in delivery that’s the difference maker. Or so she keeps trying to tell me.
Pride can make one a very slow learner.
I roll my eyes as I bring the soup to a simmer. With nothing to occupy my hands and a staunch refusal to set one toe into the living room where he is, I pick up my phone again.
Space and tenderness isn’t exactly my forte, I type.
This time, it’s Anna Jordan who weighs in.
I don’t know, is it so different from what you need though? ‘Drop off the coffee and then leave’ sounds like the same thing to me.
Her reference to dropping off coffee forces a wry grin. In one of the Enneagram memes littering Instagram, there were suggestions for how to acknowledge when each type is upset. For my type, a five, one of the tips was to just say, “hey, I noticed you’re upset—here’s some coffee,” and then … leave. Since then, AJ has taken to sending me $5 via Venmo now and then when she knows it’s been a hard week, her long distance version of dropping off coffee and leaving.
Touche, I text back.
She’s pushing me a little, and she knows it, but I let her. I think about what she’s saying. No, I don’t always know why something is bothering me, nor do I always feel ready to talk about it. If my friend, who lives 3,000 miles away, can see and honor that in me, can I not do that for my husband?
It’s a lack of self-awareness, I suppose, that I don’t always understand the weight of what I’m asking for from others. I am focused on my own need for space and time to process and give very little consideration to the cost of those demands for the people who love me. I will gladly give Jon autonomy when it’s convenient for me, but maybe it’s a greater gesture of love to offer it when it’s not. After all, it seems like the height of hypocrisy to punish him for something I myself need.
I finish cooking and dinner is a relatively quiet affair. I’m no longer bristling with hostility, though. Later, once the kids are in bed (and staying there), Jon asks to resume our conversation. He explains that he felt a little hurt and jealous, but that he really does want me to go on the trip.
“I don’t think I knew what I was feeling at first, and I needed some time to figure it out,” he says.
I tell him I understand. I apologize for pressing him to talk about it before he was ready. I thank him for telling me what he was feeling and being honest.
My shoulders relax as a tentative peace washes over us.
In our eleven years of marriage, nearly every single argument has been rooted in miscommunication. The wrong words are said or a different meaning is construed or sometimes, there is an absence of words and assumptions fill up the silence. We’ve pushed each other in moments we should’ve taken a break and stormed off when we should’ve stayed present.
It’s normal, I think, for these things to happen. We’re only human. And no one ever said “and two shall become one” would be easy.
I don’t think I realized it would be work that’s never done, though.
“I’m headed to bed, are you staying up for a bit?” I ask.
“I think so,” Jon says, so I drop a kiss on the top of his head and say goodnight. I haven’t been in bed long though when he slides under the covers next to me.
“I thought you were staying up,” I murmur.
“I decided I wanted to come to bed with you tonight.”
He reaches out and pulls me gently against him, my back to his front, and wraps an arm around me. I feel warm and safe and fall asleep with no space between us.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.