Do Opposites Attract?

Navigating polarity as new parents in a new relationship

The babies are crying, Maverick’s howling and Pippi is hyperventilating. The kettle that is my nervous system is whistling on the hot stove. Stop the noise, stop the noise, stop the noise.

You try to help but it’s not fast enough. After you pick her up, Brynn cries even harder. My ears acutely register the doppler effect as you walk away with the baby. She’s desperate for me. So is Cora.

I lift Cora out of the bassinet and she stops crying instantly. My superpower is a blessing and a curse. I cradle one baby and chase after the other.

“Here — ” I tuck Cora in the crook of my left arm and extend my right. You place Brynn in my open arm, a little too quickly.

The noise has stopped but the energy has only moved. You trudge away with slumped shoulders and there are words from your lips I cannot hear, but can feel. The air is heavy. My hands are full. Something hurts. My body, my feelings — it’s all the same — or, I can’t tell the difference.

The fire is out but the house is scorched. This isn’t right. I think we should be celebrating my heroic efforts. Where’s my applause?

I sit down on the sofa and nurse my infants into oblivion. I could take this moment to pause and reset myself, but I don’t. My hands are idle so I fill them with my phone. I have groceries to buy.

I almost finish the order before the babies stop suckling. Now they’re dreaming of sugarplums so I put down my phone and carefully place them each in a crevasse of the big blue nursing pillow. Then I pick up the pillowed babies, carry them into our bedroom, and safely position them in the center of our bed.

When I return to the living room, the first thing I see is a huge pile of dog hair on the sofa where the pillow used to be. I look over at you in the kitchen, scrolling your phone, as resentment builds further for all I have to do.

I shake off my feelings without due process and roll up the dog hair with my nifty contraption. Then I start up the robot vacuum. If there’s one thing I can rely on to help me, it’s my Shark.

I take a deep breath. The babies will be asleep for two hours and I just need to finish the grocery order, pop into my work meetings and continue packing for our move to North Carolina. Wait— I also need to finish my deliverables for my work meetings.

Suddenly my brain feels like it’s running out of storage space. My anxiety is on the rise. If only I didn’t have to hold so much, do so much, remember so much— I look over at you again, scrolling your phone, still recovering from the onslaught of noise from the babies and dogs.

When I tried to solve that problem and do it all myself, I created a situation. I made you feel helpless and me feel overburdened. How can I fix this? Maybe if I just ask for help, I can shift us back in balance.

I’m still figuring out how to ask for help, especially with household responsibilities, without ruffling your feathers. So, I add extra perk to my voice when I call over to you in the kitchen.

“Hey, babe?”

You look up from your phone, still grimacing. I take a deep breath.

“I have a lot to do today, and a lot on my mind. I was thinking it would help if we divvied up some of our daily responsibilities.”

You eye me without saying a word, so I continue.

“I was thinking you could be in charge of the dogs. You already feed them for the most part, and they also need to be brushed. Maverick is shedding a lot right now.”

“Fine, whatever,” you respond. “I do that anyways. Well, not the brushing— but feeding.”

Now I feel like a nagging mother but I try to maintain a positive tone.

“Exactly. It just helps me to say it out loud so we know who’s doing what. So I can take it off my mental list, you know?”

You shrug and I exhale. That went well, I think. Now, back to the groceries.

“Is there anything you need from Meijer?” I ask.

“Uhhhh,” you think for a moment. “Maybe Cliff Bars,” you say.

I walk over to the pantry to check our supply.

“There’s nine left,” I report. “Is that enough for the next two weeks, or do you think you’ll need more? I don’t want to buy extra stuff that we’ll just have to move.”

“I know,” you reply, as if I’ve insulted your intelligence. “We can pack them in a box.”

“I know,” I echo, with edge. “But I don’t want to pay our movers to haul groceries we could buy in North Carolina.”

“Yeah well, I’ll be driving the car. I’ll need stuff to eat on the drive.”

“Okay then, I’ll get a box. What kind do you want?”

“Never mind, I don’t want any,” you reply, pissed off.

I’m incredulous. Our whole dialogue sounds ridiculous, funny even.

“Why are we even arguing?” I ask you.

It’s a rhetorical question, meant to break the ice. I’m pointing out that we’re struggling over nothing, really. A box of bars. I think we’ll laugh together. Instead, you deny my reality.

“We’re not arguing! Are you fucking stupid?” Then you stand up and storm off.

Your voice is so loud, I check to make sure the babies are still at peace. They are, but we’re not. How did we get here? Where did we take a wrong turn?

I’m not used to foul language from loved ones. It feels so jarring that I tell my client I’m sick and reschedule my meetings for tomorrow. It’s not a lie. I’m temporarily disabled by my emotions.

After you leave for work, all I can do is ruminate about the dangers that lurk ahead. I’m mad at myself for bringing my daughters into this imperfect world— for wanting to be a mother so badly that I didn’t clean house before they arrived.

I knew we had communication issues, I just thought they’d work themselves out. Instead, they’re escalating. While I find your words unacceptable, I also realize there’s something I’m doing to provoke you. There’s just too many dynamics in play for me to parse out.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve broken down, like an overused car, overdue for maintenance. Now our relationship is stranded on the side of the road. We don’t know which parts need repair or how much it will cost us.

I’ve always been a good fixer but something’s telling me this isn’t my role. I think about how my mother counsels me with a million solutions to one problem, and I leave the conversation feeling more anxious than before. No, I’m not a counselor. I’m a wife.

Still, I’ve been raised by a counselor and I have a bachelor’s degree in Psychology. The gears in my brain are in overdrive trying to figure this all out.

At the first sign of disagreement, it seems you want to end the conversation, through whatever means necessary. Your verbal attacks are knee-jerk reactions to stop the noise, or stop your feelings.

Still, daughters can’t hear fathers call their mother stupid, or tell her to shut up, or worse. No, this is not the way it’s supposed to be. We’ll have to fix this, one way or another, and I don’t have a relationship mechanic on speed dial.

We’ll just have to talk about the conflict and resolve it, together. This is how I’ve always done it. It can’t be that hard. Only, this is how you’ve never done it. Your mother is not a wannabe Freud like mine. She’s a recovering Catholic, for God’s sake.

If my childhood home was the epitome of expression, yours was the epitome of repression. In terms of communication, you and I are like two opposite poles of a magnet. Do they attract, or repel? I can’t remember.

All I know is, we have to get this right. In a perfect world, I dream of our differences holding us together in a beautiful state of balance. Not only for our sake, but for our mini-magnets.

We’ve become new parents while we’re still learning how to become partners. This is really hard. But, dreams do come true. I believe this because of our beautiful babies. Hope is the engine that keeps me running, and here you are, showing up every day, too.

At least we are united in one thing: Together, we try.