This is another totally easy one.
I wish I didn’t smoke.
You might ask why I just don’t quit then, which is perfectly reasonable. The thing is, I have quit. Several times.
It was beyond easy for me to quit when I got pregnant with Zach. It was as simple as “Oh, I’m pregnant, I should just throw these away.” So I threw them away. I told myself I wasn’t going to take smoking back up again, nope, no sirree Bob. Well, the problem was, when I was no longer pregnant with him, even though it’d been 8 months, I really wanted a cigarette. It didn’t help that at the time, John smoked too, and so did everyone we were around, and nobody encouraged me to keep up with the not smoking. The first time John’s grandmother saw me staring at her cigarette she gave me one.
Then I got pregnant with Ryan.
Quitting then, well, it was hard. I knew I needed to quit, but I didn’t really want to quit. But after a month I’d finally quit. Even after I’d completely stopped, I still wanted them. I’d yell at John, not for smoking around pregnant me, but for smoking when I couldn’t. I didn’t even pretend like I was going to keep up the not smoking after he was born.
But, then John quit smoking.
He basically woke up one morning, decided they were stupid, gave me the cigarettes he had left, and never has smoked again. It was that simple for him.
When I got pregnant with Belly and had to quit again John was very helpful… and I resented every moment. (Not of the pregnancy) He would tell me what a great job I was doing, how many days it had been since I’d last had a cigarette, ask me didn’t I feel better, didn’t food taste better? This was not appreciated by me the least little bit. I wanted to smoke. I needed to smoke.
I still want to smoke… I just wish I didn’t.
When I’m asked why I don’t quit since I don’t want to want to smoke I tell the truth. Smoking… it’s my de-stresser. I can go outside, away from the crying Belly, the barking dog, the fighting boys, the angry husband, and… its quiet. The boys know if I’m in the carport smoking, they can’t come out there, they have to rely on their father. Or if John’s not home, if I’m in the backyard smoking (where I can clearly see them if they are in the living room, kitchen, or bedroom), they can open the door tell me what they need, and I’ll put out my cigarette come in and help. Going outside to smoke is the only way I get any quiet time, any me time. I can read, sit and think, talk on the phone, text, listen to music, or just enjoy sitting in the quiet doing nothing. I don’t want to give that up. But if I could guarantee getting to do that, without smoking, (and without turning into the woman from Hell when I seriously am craving a cigarette) I’d give up smoking in a heartbeat.