We went from awkward kids (But, oh we thought we understood it all then. I will try to remember that feeling when my children tell me at sixteen that it's THEIR life and I don't know ANYTHING about it.) to adults (in theory) together and then we fell in love for real. And, now we've built a life for real - a family.
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day.
. . .
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. It doesn't happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." -- The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
There weren't any pretty gift boxes or love poems yesterday. I went to bed early with a cold and he went out for a beer with a friend. Curled up on the couch a few nights before, in those blissful few hours after all is quiet, but before we are too tired to talk to each other, he mentioned our anniversary. We just signed that contract to put in the retaining wall in the back yard. Happy anniversary?
That's how it is. It doesn't bother me. We have a big family. We have big needs. Tokens of our love don't seem necessary. They would be lost in the shuffle anyway. We have the tokens that we need sleeping upstairs in their cribs. We have the love poems too, if we look for them. In the meter and cadence of our days.
I do wonder, though. Why do we love someone? How did I get so lucky as to have the very real love of my life in my life. Karma, kismet, luck, geography? All I know is that he gives me these moments when I choke on the love and understanding and compassion that I too often take for granted.
Like, the crazy evening a year into our marriage when he came home with a trade magazine clutched in his hand. I lay on our bed fetally wrapped around the constant knot in my stomach. I hated my job. I hated the insane hours and the mind-numbing stress. I hadn't slept well for a year. I cried every Sunday like a pathetic thirteen year old at the thought of walking back into the wood panelled halls and silent, key-coded elevators on Monday morning. But, I couldn't quit. I hadn't the courage to leave it behind because I had never really failed at anything. He sat beside me and pointed to an ad in the magazine. It said, 'want to live in paradise?' And, a few months later, we did live in paradise. A tropical island on the other side of the world. That move wasn't for him.
Fast forward to over a year later, still living the island life. Still two kids (us) and one incredibly needy half-wild 'boonie' dog. Dressed in our standard board shorts and tees, the soft evening wind blowing our hair, we loaded our banana yellow kayak and launched into the lagoon. The dog, just a puppy, named Thai, huddled in comical misery under HSSH's legs. Thai considered this outing nothing short of suicide. We paddled out to the reef line and drifted, listening to the crash of the surf just feet from our tiny boat, protected on the mirror-still surface of the lagoon, talking about everything and nothing. I had been thinking about quitting my job for months. I liked this position better, but confrontations and adversity were the nature of the profession, and I still took it personally. A resignation letter sat, saved on my hard drive, undelivered as the weeks dragged past.He shifted (causing the shivering dog to emit a howl of protest - egads, you idiots, there is WATER beneath this rocking banana of terror - and scramble for my side of the boat) and reached into the dive tank hold to pull out a bottle of champagne. The rock of the boat was too much for Thai and, with a look of supreme disgust, he leapt over the side and began thrashing madly towards sand and sanity. And then, realized that the floating banana was the only available dock for two miles. And then, managed to turn around and swim back for the kayak, never ceasing his streaming howls of both desperation and profanity. HSSH took pity on him and jumped to the rescue, with my protest of 'don't drop the champagne' following after. Priorities. When both soaking wet, supremely offended pooch and mercifully undamaged bottle of bubbly had been shoved back over the side of the kayak, and HSSH and I had found a way to stop laughing at the most-pissed-off-dog-in-the-universe-ever, I asked. So what are we celebrating? He smiled and popped the cork, took a long drink and held out the bottle to me, a sweet challenge, with a little bite to it. Your resignation. Three weeks later, I had a new job that I adored.
Fast forward five years. In our kitchen last week, he made coffee. Ess and Gee curled around his legs asking questions without waiting for answers in their annoying and endearing toddler manner. What you do Daddy? You make coffee? You want coffee? You like coffee? I help. Daddy? What you do, Daddy... (repeat, until your mind melts out of your left ear). He looked down into their earnest faces and said, Could you stay two and a half forever. Nothing renews our love so much for me as watching the way he loves our children.
Nine years. We've changed. We've gained. In small ways, a house, security, obligations, responsibilities. Three incredible little people that we couldn't live without. We've lost too. The little things that trickle away, freedom, flexibility, stretches of time for floating on lagoons. Two children. We have petty fights. We say cruel things. We forget to be gentle with each other in the daily rush. We are starting to look a little worn now. We have spots that are rubbed shiny. Our fur is matted in some places. That's what happens when it's real.
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