I was never, ever going to get married. If you’ve read my blog for years or came to it via my “Dear Mom” post, you know this about me.
In my post “Just Married,” I described getting married as being
like releasing a bike’s brakes near the top of a hill after trundling along at a crawl. It’s scary to let go, but liberating at the same time: I am bigger than my fear! Take thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat! YEAH!
Partnership doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to my husband, Anthony. Sometimes it still feels weird and scary and ill-fitting. Other times, I’m overwhelmed by the sweetness in seemingly small moments and think how glad I am to be learning.
There’s usually at least one kid in my bed all hours of the day and night.
Tonight, my husband and I have the bed to ourselves for the first time in … oh, weeks!
As I sniffled and snickered my way through the YA novel The Porcupine of Truth, I smiled at the weight of my sleeping husband’s hand on my hip. When he drifted further into sleep, his hand fell off my hip and back onto the bed. Mrpfh, he mumbled as he placed his hand back on my hip. Where it belongs.
This he did over and over until I finally poked him half-awake. “Hon?”
“Yeah?” he murmured groggily.
“You keep on rousing yourself to put your hand on my hip. It’s the sweetest thing. Do you mind if I write about it?”
“Go ah–” he got out before resuming his deep sleep-breathing.
When I rose to write this post, Anthony patted the warm spot where I’d been and made a soft, sad murmur.
“I’ll be right back, hon,” I promised, smiling all the way to my desk chair, where I now sit in darkness, sweet darkness, thinking how grand it is to have so, so very much to learn, and to be able to learn it guided by such tenderly moved hands.