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Every Possible Avenue

Nothing in my parents’ marriage had quite prepared me for what my own shanah rishonah would look like.

 

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alking home from yeshivah I felt that familiar pit — of what was it? dread? anxiety? doom? — in my kishkes. Would there be supper when I came home? Would Chedvah eat with me or would she just sit there looking annoyed? Would Chedvah even be home or would I have to track her down at one of her sisters’ houses? Would tonight’s conversation devolve into a fight as it did practically every day?

Nothing in my parents’ marriage had quite prepared me for what my own shanah rishonah would look like. Although my parents were polar opposites — my father was soft-spoken and bookish my mother was loud funny and super-talented — I never saw them fighting. Oh yes they discussed things they had long conversations in their room but I never witnessed or sensed tension friction or disagreement between them. Throughout my childhood I saw opposites being attracted to each other and working out their differences in a respectful and loving way.

As a child growing up in this environment I got to build healthy self-esteem with a good balance of optimism and realism. I was always a leader in yeshivah always popular. All my brothers were big camp guys and I was no different. I was head of drama in camp and I ran a big-brother program while in beis medrash. The quintessential all-around guy.

I was as prepared for marriage as a bochur could be ready to give ready to work and ready to enjoy a respectful relationship.

To no one’s surprise I was the first of my friends to get engaged. My kallah Chedvah was upbeat and spunky and we heard rave reports about her.

She was overweight but that didn’t bother me terribly. I had always been health conscious and I reasoned that I’d be able to impart this value to her and eventually she’d lose weight. I wouldn’t buy soda or junk so she’d learn to drink water and snack on fruit.

Like every chassan I had some small question marks about my kallah during our engagement. When I brought up the subject of living a healthier lifestyle she clammed up even though I didn’t say a word about her weight

Often, when we had to make a decision, she would say, “I’ll discuss it with my parents” or “I need to ask my sister.” At one point, an issue came up between our parents over where the wedding should be held. Even after the matter was resolved, she brought it up virtually every time we met. “Are you sure it’s okay?” she would ask anxiously. “I really wanted to get married in that hall, but I can change it if it’s important to you.”

“It really has nothing to do with me,” I’d reply. “It’s okay, it’s water under the bridge.” I couldn’t understand why she had to keep mentioning it.

But these things were so minor, certainly not worth making an issue over, so I didn’t bother raising them with anyone.

Soon after we got married, things started to go sour. Chedvah barely ate, as far as I could see, yet she continuously gained weight. And she would get really mad any time things didn’t go her way. Any issue that we didn’t agree on — to stay home or to go away for Shabbos, to buy a pair of shoes that we couldn’t afford, what to do on Chol Hamoed — set her off. Walking into the house on any given day, I never knew what awaited me: Would I be greeted by the dynamic, happy-go-lucky girl I had married, or by the brooding, volatile wife I was seeing so much of?

Both Chedvah and I came from respected, functional families, and I was bewildered and embarrassed that we were fighting all the time. My parents were also very different from each other, I reasoned, and they got to where they got by sitting down face-to-face and resolving their issues.

But in our case, the direct approach never seemed to work.

I used to drive Chedvah to work, but many days, she stayed home, complaining that she was too tired, or something was hurting her, or she had to go shopping, or she just needed a break.

“Chedvah,” I said gently, “you missed four days of work in the past two weeks. I think we need to get onto a better schedule.”

“You try making a Shabbos!” she yelled at me.

When I pointed out, in a way that I thought was non-confrontational, that the housework wasn’t getting done, Chedvah exploded. “Your father always overworked your mother, and now you’re doing the same to me!”

Chedvah was overworked? Were my expectations that unreasonable? And what did my parents have to do with this?

Excerpted from Mishpacha Magazine. To view full version, SUBSCRIBE FOR FREE or LOG IN.

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