… but we both know that that is not my real name.

I was walking home today pondering my role in this MoM. It’s so simple, really, but also so complex. It is simple because if you don’t know us, he and I, look ‘normal’ [heterosexual]. It is complex because if you do know us, but don’t know the full story, we still look ‘normal’ [heterosexual]. The notion of appearing like a heterosexual couple torments my husband, it sets back the development of his authentic self, it diminishes his true identity. Or so he says. But what of mine? Am I really Alice [she/her/hers] or am I Alice [they/them/theirs]? Does the pronoun make any difference? Does being married to, and loving a gay man, negate my identity as a heterosexual woman? It’s a wonderfully difficult notion to wrap my mind around.

My husband [he/him/his] insists that this is all about him, and in many ways, it is. I would not have a story to tell were it not for his homosexuality. And yet, daily, we seem to argue about the fact that I am homophobic for loving him, for wanting to hold him close, for wanting to call him my husband. I often wonder, is my black and white love for him really as much of a burden as he makes it out to be? He calls my affection toward him self-validation, and I could not disagree more. I try so hard not to sound bitter, angry, or upset – but on days where he turns me away, makes me feel like the villain of the story, it is hard not to feel the ugly words. Though now, as I write this, I feel numb, tired, and just slightly buzzed from a few sips of wine I probably should not have had.

My husband and I, we have an eight year old son. He is our world and he is the reason we wake up every day and reset ourselves to being kind toward one another. Sometimes I worry that this is a heavy burden to bestow on a small child – to make him the glue of our relationship – but he is none the wiser. He only experiences the good bits of our life. The good bits are all laughter and kindness, breakfast as a family on a Saturday morning, and a hiking trip on Sunday. Don’t get me wrong, we still all have our fights, but Aiden – he is safe, he is happy, and he is, above all, loved.

I want to tell you that tonight was back to school night and it was difficult for me. Sitting in a room full of women with ordinary lives, I just felt… alone. When I say ordinary I mean it with both regard and disdain. Regard because ordinary is so beautiful, simple, and pure. Disdain because ordinary is also boring, average, and plain. Is that cruel? When the PTA photos of these perfect, well rounded families and the women who run the show at the schools came up on the PowerPoint, I teared up – not out of envy – but out of sadness. Am I just pretending? Is that beautiful family photo on my phone just a lie? Am I really holding my husband back? This churning, ambiguous loss I experience, it is indescribable. It is definitely not ordinary.

How do you end a blog post? Maybe goodnight is enough?

So goodnight.