Reconciling Honeymoon Expectations With Marriage Bliss

Reconciling Honeymoon Expectations With Marriage Bliss

Whoever says honeymoons create a state of suspended bliss hasn’t been on one in a while.

I was barely twenty-two when I married. My husband, on the other hand, celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday flying back from our honeymoon in Kauai, Hawaii.

I believe this age gap is the main reason we survived those first few days, trapped together in paradise.

Now, don’t get me wrong, that trip—barring losing our luggage, missing our flights, having jet-lag and paying ten dollars for a pineapple that I’d imagined I’d be able to cut from a bush with a machete like I was reenacting Lost— was one for the books.

But, you see, like all young brides, I had great expectations. I imagined walking the beach at sunset, arm-in-arm with my beloved, then feeding each other shellfish dripping in butter and kissing the oil off each other’s lips.

You can then imagine how crushed I was when, after hours spent kayaking the river that fed us into the ocean that was teeming with boats with wakes like tidal waves that almost capsized our vessel and made us drown (my idea, ahem, once again), my husband plopped down in front of the TV, gingerly put his sunburnt feet on the coffee table, and declared he wasn’t moving again until it was time to get ready for dinner.

“But don’t you want to walk the beach?” I asked, batting my eyes in a come-hither-or-else expression.

“We just got back from the beach,” he said.

I pointed to the windows of the condo. “But not at sunset!”

“I can watch the sun set from here.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Or my eyes. This was our hon.ey.moon. We would never get another one again. We would never get to see this sunset again. I wanted to seize the day, and he just wanted to seize the remote control.

“Well, then, I’m going to walk the beach by myself,” I said, my tone boiling with manipulation.

My husband looked up and even had the audacity to smile. “Have fun,” he said.

I stomped across the tiled foyer and grabbed my sandals that were caked with sand. I put them on outside and then slammed the door behind me. I could be mistaken, but I thought I heard him laugh.

I’ll never forget walking down the countless cobblestone steps that led to the beach or passing an older couple who were nestled together, their silver hair fluttering like feathers and placid gazes fixed on the horizon.

Self-conscious of their solitude and my own pitiful state, I walked down the beach until I came to an inlet. I sat on a branch beneath a sprawling tree, drew my knees up to my chest, and stared at the waves, watching them crash upon the shore only to be sucked out again. I did not shed a tear, though my melodramatic thought process surely called for it.

I felt jilted, abandoned, though my husband was only taking a two-hour break from my go-go-go vacation schedule until it was time to go again. But then—watching the tangerine sun slip into the water—I could not see that evening as clearly as I can now. I told myself that if my husband did not love me enough to walk down to the beach on our honeymoon, what would life be like when we returned home?

Well, fast forward five years….

Yesterday, always the last one in the car, I came laden with my daughter’s blankie, a fruit squeezie, socks and shoes so she wouldn’t look like an orphan child. I was also balancing a book and water bottle on top of a bowl of yogurt with granola, which was going to be my supper. Then, as soon as I snapped my seatbelt, my daughter smelled the yogurt or saw it or whatever happens to make her sense sustenance like a shark.

Instead of reading and eating my granola like I had imagined, I remained turned around, spooning food into my daughter’s waiting mouth. She polished off most of it; I wiped her mouth clean of yogurt and ate whatever was left in the bowl.

We arrived at the store and picked out a potty-training chair, some 18-36 month socks with grips on the bottom so my daughter won’t slip and fall when she’s terrorizing the house, dog wormer for Kashi, a choker chain for Kashi (she pulled the stroller over during a walk this week), and double-chocolate gelato for me.

I grabbed two spoons from the bakery section. In the car, my husband brought the gelato up front, peeled off the wrapper, and passed it to me.

I unscrewed the lid and held it out. “Want some?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Make sure she doesn’t see it,” he warned, glancing over his shoulder at the cherub babbling in her pink car seat. “Or you won’t get a bite.”

We paused in front of a red light. My daughter squealed. Panicked, I garbled around a mouthful, not moving a muscle. “What’s she doing?”

“Boring a hole through your head,” he said. “She knows you’ve got something.”

I screwed the lid back on the gelato and gradually lowered it to the floorboard. Then I took a sip from my water bottle and offered it to my daughter. “See?” I said. “This is all mommy has.”

She was not convinced.

One hour later, the groceries were put away and our daughter was asleep. My husband sat on the couch, watching a documentary on his laptop since we don’t have TV.

I sat down beside him, and he said, “Want me to take it back to the beginning?”

I nodded and put my feet on his lap. He held them both in one hand and hit play.

Snuggling against him, I recalled that evening on a beach in Kauai when I thought acts of love meant sunset strolls and shellfish dinners. Now, I understand that love is about enjoying the simplicity of everyday life– grocery shopping, child-rearing, and movie nights–side by side.

What were some of the misconceptions you brought into your relationship? How did you resolve them?