Two Weeks

So, I have been in a lesbian marriage for 2 weeks.

Except, I guess, I have been in a lesbian marriage for nearly three years.

Except, not really, because my wife is still my husband and nothing has changed.

Except, for all the things that are different.

After the tumultuous ride that was the first weekend after my husband came out to me, I declared that I would let this lie, he could come to me when he was ready to move forward with things. I thought I could move on this way, find a little peace, maybe pretend things were all normal.

Then the next day he asks me if I like his thumb ring.

The next night we are going to bed, and my husband who has pulled off his pants and climbed into bed, since long before he was my husband, since before he even lived here, who has a hook for his pants to keep them from being piled on the laundry basket, leaves the bedroom carrying a pair of boxers to get ready for bed.

My heart sinks, passing him in the hall with the navy silk boxers I bought him on a whim for valentines. I know now, things are already changing and nothing will be the same.

So I wait for him to come to me, to tell me about what steps he is taking towards transition. But there is only silence.

One evening in the shower I remember a bracelet I bought when my life fell apart and I had no clue who I was. Digging through boxes, I find the silly little elastic bracelet with its washer carved with "just breathe" and I tell him that is helped me when I was lost. Its a much nicer moment than my fumbled attempt to buy my way into acceptance a week ago.

But somewhere in the house there are dirty underwear that aren't making it into the laundry. Here it is my husband wants to be a woman, and I am worried about the laundry. We are a family of four that cloth diapers, I have a precarious laundry schedule that keeps us all in clean clothes, and these hidden panties were going to disrupt my cycle.

Also, why wouldn't he just tell me? What else was happening?

We had agreed that I would let this be and he would come to me.. but what about the damn underwear.

And then another week passes, we celebrate father's day, and it breaks my heart a little, knowing this could be the last. Will the memory of his daughter sitting on his lap begging for drinks of tea be forever tied with a life he wants to forget? Will he bury the memory of the day so he doesn't have to think of himself as a father? What will I tell my son when we stop celebrating "Dad" on father's day.

And still the damn underwear.

Finally I explode. I ask the questions that are rambling through my head. All the things knock around and disturb my sleep, keep me from peace. Does he want to nurse our daughter? Does he want to freeze sperm so he can start hormones? And where are the damn underwear.

The damn is broken, and we fucking talk, finally. If there is one thing to know about me, I process outloud, I am one of those crazy people that barring someone nearby to talk to, will talk herself through something.  All the questions are out in the open, and we keep talking. I ask him questions as the come to me, he asks me advice before he does something.  We are communicating.

And the damn panties are in the laundry basket and washed with all the other laundry.

All at once everything is right in the world, and absolutely everything is still wrong.

But it's ok, because the damn panties are in the wash.