Yesterday, a camp job appeared in my inbox. I know. I should have unsubscribed from the list a year ago. Most of the postings only confirm that camp life is not sustainable. The pay is low, the sites are remote, and the opportunities for spouses are limited. I've learned the hard way that having housing attached to a position is a tainted apple. It’s good until it isn’t, and then you’re not only unemployed, you’re a nomad again.
But this job. . . oh my. The salary, for once, isn’t horrible. The previous camp wife was the office administrator, so a role is all but guaranteed for her successor. Its Pennsylvania location lands it smack between Bug’s New England cousins and his DC area grandparents.
Not that I’m thinking about it or anything.
I understand now why the Commonwealth of Virginia requires a one-year separation before even considering a divorce. The initial blaze dies down and cool heads take over. Weary from 52 weeks of custody discussions and a malnourished wallet, some folks might decide the marriage is the lesser of the evils.
Some folks might.
The camp opportunity really socked it to me. Part of me wants it back with the desperation of a refugee. The fierce, maternal pull in me longs to return my family to the woods to heal. I can picture Bug riding the school bus home to the end of that dirt road every day, running through trees and along the edge of the lake to find his mommy and daddy both there. The camp life nourishes us all back to life.
Or so I have believed.
I sink my teeth into the sweet flesh of this perception, and crack hard against the stone. Tee could not sustain it. The entire picture fit perfectly around the fiction of my husband’s success as a camp director. It is possible, of course, that magic could reveal some unknown well of potency within him. Hell, the next woman may whisper just the right spell to rouse the dormant hero.
Something between us did not work to this end. We left two camps in a whirlwind of noisy silence. Endless explanations obscured unexamined truth. The third camp ripped away the pretense. Under all the chatter, the emperor was, in fact, buck naked.
The job posting has kicked off an avalanche of fantasies about offering Tee the possibility of reconciliation. This would be conditional on his taking charge of his career and landing a position – in the camping industry or, really, anywhere – that could support his family. That reconciliation is mine to offer and the conditions upon it mine to determine are insane notions. What kind of marital farce have we been conducting all these years? The major decisions affecting the well-being of my family are, yet again, left to me. For the better part of a decade, this has been the dynamic. Somehow, I contributed to such dizzying imbalance. It is stunning to realize that the strength of my personality could steer me so wrong. Yet, all along, I received such patchy assistance (or resistance) from Tee that it became easy to justify.
Pursuing the divorce, Tee has determined, is my choice. He wants no part of making the split happen but also claims he has no power to set things right. Splice or cleave. Whether my son gets one home or two is up to me. Whether he grows up in the woods, the city, or a small town in the Midwest is up to me.
Astounding, really, isn’t it? Such a silly, directionless girl, holding all the cards. Forgive me, please, if I falter.
The leadership of a family must be shared. The power to make decisions is a burden, it is true. But now I understand that no one spouse can free the other from that difficult work. We all may like to believe we can avoid the toughest calls by not making them. No choice is a choice, after all. It was inaction that exposed the weaknesses in the foundation of our camp family and left us without a home and without an income 15 months ago. I could decide to take charge again. I could, perhaps, encourage and cajole Tee back into that life. I could throw all my chips behind rebuilding our home in the woods. Tee at the helm of a camp may reveal to both of us a man who can prosper.
In doing so, I could build a beautiful facade destined for an even more devastating collapse.
Or, I could release my grip and let Bug’s parents each chart their own course.
Which would be the lesser evil?
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