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Eight

Eight

Today, I have been married for eight years. Instead of a fancy dressed-up night date, we went out during the day, in our mini-van, during school hours. 

We ended up sitting in a bookstore, knees touching, him reading Hiroshima, me reading Maya Angelou. This makes us sound educated and fancy, but it's a rarity. It's just a rarity that makes me really happy. Anyway. I've been in some sort of mental/emotional process lately, and I kept interrupting his reading to talk about it. We ate Thai food for lunch, and I continued to verbally unpack my brain over rice noodles and peanut sauce. 

This is what marriage looks like without some of the glamour, I think. Today, we talked through my mess. Last week, we talked through his. In between, we held hands and hugged the kids and emailed the teacher back and he folded laundry.

These days, we get tired because of the babies who now talk at us while we try steal moments alone to kiss (or to argue). Our eyes meet over their heads -- sometimes to laugh, sometimes to glare, sometimes for a lifeline. Often for a lifeline. 

Until Billy, I always was unsatisfied in friendship. I wanted one person to be my person, to get me, to always be for me, to know what I'm thinking just by looking at my face. In so many ways, he is that. And in some small ways, he is not. He is only human. We misunderstand each other. We think we know one another, and then something new comes to the surface. Gracious -- we think we know our own selves, and then something new comes to the surface. We're growing up together.

This day, this eighth anniversary, I want to celebrate the life that is revealing itself as the glitter fades. I celebrate the efforts we've made to be for us when it was messy and really not cute. I celebrate the way he is so much more of a man than he was, so much more confident, so much more willing to admit when he is wrong, and so much more willing to tell me when I am. I celebrate the way he has stayed up late counseling me, diving into the depths with me, pulling me out gently and patiently, making my crazy feel not so crazy. I mean, I couldn't have ever articulated it before, but I think that is one of the most wonderful things we can do for each other -- make the other's crazy seem just a bit less so. 

I celebrate that he, too, doesn't seem to know what to do as a parent but that he keeps experimenting right along side me.

Last night, we were trying to correct our oldest child on some attitude issues. I am unqualified for this. As we were talking, I mean, just really trying to figure out what to say as we were saying it, I burst into laughing. I couldn't stop. This little human is watching us, being molded and growing, and we are truly just trying our best, but we are just winging it (and praying, too, I promise). I had to get up and leave the table so that Billy could try to salvage the moment without starting his own laughter.

There is nobody I'd rather wing it with and pray with and laugh at inappropriate times with than him.

Freedom Journal

Freedom Journal