He said; “Just get it, we can do it together.”
I said; “I dunno…” in a mumbly sort of way. I’m thumbing through workout DVDs at Target, trying to think of a reason to spend the twenty bucks in my pocket on Pringles and Soda. Something believable, so he’ll agree and I won’t feel like a work-out loser who hasn’t been to the gym in over a month. But I have nothing to say and so I cave to the pressure and buy this piece of disk and plastic that promises huge results in 30 days. Whatever.
Jillian Michaels is the stuff of nightmares. We’ve been at this for ten days now. Each morning, after a dozen greedy gulps of coffee, we’re working out. Things like walk-out pushups and military presses with leg extensions. And I don’t have hand weights and I don’t want any, so I’ve got a can of diced tomatoes (family size) in one hand and Old Fashioned Oats in the other. I grunt my way through this routine and collapse at the end, where even the cool down stretching feels like work.
Isn't marriage just like that dreaded work out? A lifetime of military presses and going through the routine of living together. Sometimes a little bit dull. Sometimes so honest and brutal you ask the bedroom walls what was I thinking? But just like the shadow of definition I can see on my forearms and the beginnings of a quadracep, marriage - and love- is about repetition and sticking with it. Today I am picking up the pace. I am compromising like never before and I'm toning up our marriage- diced tomatoes and all.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Day 93: Love and Seaglass
It's the first brilliant day of Spring and it feels like summer. Nearly seventy degrees on the coast and families just pile onto the beaches. A mass of winter-white bodies in capris and burmuda shorts. And dogs, lots of dogs. We strolled the beach together, sans Micky (his hey-you-forgot-me barks can be heard even after our feet hit the sand). And because we can, we walk the five mile stretch at a crawl; Rich poking at any shelled creature he can get his hands on, me hunting for sea glass. I love sea glass. Not the manufactured packets of tumbled sea glass that you can find in any craft store. I much prefer the natural sea glass- even as I realize what a complete contradiction this is. A wave on another shore catches a bottle and carries it away. The elements rough house against the glass, tossing it, smashing it, and grinding it against rocks and cliffs until it is spit up on the Maine shore, completely beat-up and soft around the edges. Sea glass may be the one bit of beauty that evolves from litter. I have a handful by the end of our walk. Browns and greens, milky white pieces and one chip of blue. I tuck them into my jeans pockets and they push against the fabric making me feel like a kid who's pockets are filled with things their mother will toss when she does the wash.
But I know that we're all like these pieces of glass, so I stop again to pull out my treasures and examine them closely. We're all products of our environment. We're scratched and we're broken. In fact, our original innocence and texture is not even recognizable anymore. And to the rest of the world we may be just another piece of litter that has washed up on some public beach. But to someone, to one person, we are a treasure. We are a take-me-home-and-keep-me-always kind of treasure. Not because of the bottle that we once were, but because of the sea gem that we are today. And I know that's what love is about. It's loving the people- the person- that we have, not for who they once were, but for who they are today. Soft edges and all.
But I know that we're all like these pieces of glass, so I stop again to pull out my treasures and examine them closely. We're all products of our environment. We're scratched and we're broken. In fact, our original innocence and texture is not even recognizable anymore. And to the rest of the world we may be just another piece of litter that has washed up on some public beach. But to someone, to one person, we are a treasure. We are a take-me-home-and-keep-me-always kind of treasure. Not because of the bottle that we once were, but because of the sea gem that we are today. And I know that's what love is about. It's loving the people- the person- that we have, not for who they once were, but for who they are today. Soft edges and all.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Day 92: To Love, always to love
Last night we sat on the beach on a blanket with a cheap bottle of wine between us. Passing it back and forth we toasted everything. To finding love, I said. He saluted the bottle and I took a sip. To the Ocean, he said. Oh yes, I agreed. To the Ocean- it never changes, never judges, and listens without ever saying a word. To the Ocean.
We're feeling pretty miserable after waiting ten days for a mortgage loan officer to return with a preapproval. She e-mailed twice, said she would call, definitely tomorrow. But like a lousy date, she doesn't call. And we're feeling bummed and a little bit rejected.
So we continued on for an hour or so, toasting everything we could think of. To Jillian Michaels (who's workouts I can feel all day long). To the Dream and never letting go. To Personal Legends. To Beringer White Zinfandel. To the stars. To Old Orchard Beach and the lights that still flicker in the off-season. To Spring. To the Portland Jet Port as we watch the lights of a plane that takes off and then vears high above us. To Love, always to love.
And then, there's nothing more to toast. The bottle has somehow emptied and we lie, half on the blanket, half on the damp sand and stare up at the bright pinpoints of light. We make up names and pretend like we know each constellation. We see about seven little dippers and half a dozen planets. Then it's cold and I remember we have fresh baked sugar cookies at home. We gather up the wet blanket. Rich corks the bottle and sends it sailing into the surf, some kind of momento of the night. But the tide is low and we both hear it hit the edge of the sand with a thud. The Tide will pull it away in the morning, I say. More seaglass. So we shrug our shoulders and wander home feeling a little bit loopy and silly, but holding hands. And even through the fog, I know that I'm happy. That this is love, and love is good.
We're feeling pretty miserable after waiting ten days for a mortgage loan officer to return with a preapproval. She e-mailed twice, said she would call, definitely tomorrow. But like a lousy date, she doesn't call. And we're feeling bummed and a little bit rejected.
So we continued on for an hour or so, toasting everything we could think of. To Jillian Michaels (who's workouts I can feel all day long). To the Dream and never letting go. To Personal Legends. To Beringer White Zinfandel. To the stars. To Old Orchard Beach and the lights that still flicker in the off-season. To Spring. To the Portland Jet Port as we watch the lights of a plane that takes off and then vears high above us. To Love, always to love.
And then, there's nothing more to toast. The bottle has somehow emptied and we lie, half on the blanket, half on the damp sand and stare up at the bright pinpoints of light. We make up names and pretend like we know each constellation. We see about seven little dippers and half a dozen planets. Then it's cold and I remember we have fresh baked sugar cookies at home. We gather up the wet blanket. Rich corks the bottle and sends it sailing into the surf, some kind of momento of the night. But the tide is low and we both hear it hit the edge of the sand with a thud. The Tide will pull it away in the morning, I say. More seaglass. So we shrug our shoulders and wander home feeling a little bit loopy and silly, but holding hands. And even through the fog, I know that I'm happy. That this is love, and love is good.
Day 91: Daydreaming Conversations
Here's the thing: I'm ready to adopt. Or at least begin the process. I'm ready to accept that reality; I'm even a little bit excited about it. I think about all the possibilities. Sometimes I daydream about talking to a child. And when they ask about their biological parents, I say that God made them special for us. That he put so much love in our hearts and we needed someone to give all that love to. And so God created a special little person, to be loved by us. To be part of our family. I imagine wide eyes and a curly mop of hair as I tell some little boy or girl how completely they are loved. How we've waited for them.
But the reality in our marriage is that Rich isn't ready to adopt. He's not ready to start the process or even look online. When we knew that it was genetics and that chances of conception were nil, I purposed in my heart to give him time. I said I would wait until he was ready. I wouldn't push this on us because I don't want this to about me and what I want. It's supposed to be about us, together. It's supposed to be about love. And hearts that want to give themselves away. But he hasn't said a word. When I bring up the topic in a casual sort of "one-day" kind of way, he gets quiet and vague, saying things like we'll see, and we'll have to talk more about that. The same answers my mother used to give when I wanted to borrow the family minivan on a Saturday afternoon. Answers that mean I-don't-think-so, but-good-luck-persuading-me-to-change-my-mind.
And so I'm waiting. I'm fighting off the itchy-finger urge to search out all the information. To be rocket-ready when he says go for it. But that feels like cheating. So for now, I'll stick to daydreaming about someday, knowing it'll be a good one.
But the reality in our marriage is that Rich isn't ready to adopt. He's not ready to start the process or even look online. When we knew that it was genetics and that chances of conception were nil, I purposed in my heart to give him time. I said I would wait until he was ready. I wouldn't push this on us because I don't want this to about me and what I want. It's supposed to be about us, together. It's supposed to be about love. And hearts that want to give themselves away. But he hasn't said a word. When I bring up the topic in a casual sort of "one-day" kind of way, he gets quiet and vague, saying things like we'll see, and we'll have to talk more about that. The same answers my mother used to give when I wanted to borrow the family minivan on a Saturday afternoon. Answers that mean I-don't-think-so, but-good-luck-persuading-me-to-change-my-mind.
And so I'm waiting. I'm fighting off the itchy-finger urge to search out all the information. To be rocket-ready when he says go for it. But that feels like cheating. So for now, I'll stick to daydreaming about someday, knowing it'll be a good one.
Day 90: Love and the Saco River
The Saco River is brown today, a muddy murky tone that's dense. You can't see past the surface. We're walking a pier that runs beside the river to the jetty-where the muddy waters absorb into the Atlantic. The Saco is not usually so Hudson-River brown. Rich says they've been dredging. Giant claws on big boats scoop into the river dig up sand and silt and all kinds of pollutants that the Ocean has slammed upstream. And over time the Atlantic has pushed so much sand up the river that the boats can barely get by. Until there's nothing left to do except watch as the very base of the river is pulled apart; sent out on barges and dumped into the deep.
It makes me sad to think of pieces of the river clawed apart by a rusty old machine.
Sometimes I think the human heart is like a river. Perhaps the experiences of our lives are the currents that push on us- slowsly filling us with bitterness or love. With memories and hurt. As independent people we protect our hearts, even after they're so filled they're barely of any use to us. We protect what has washed ashore- holding onto muddy sand and pollutants that are mixed with gems and gold pieces.
And then we meet someone. We meet someone but our hearts are already so full of stuff that in order to let them in, we must dredge. Take a claw to our insides and pull out all these old pieces of ourselves. The hurt. The protective layers. Until there is room for another person- not to sail by, but to stay. To drop anchor. My heart feels a little stirred up these days. A little bit dredged. But I'm making room for another. Always, making room.
It makes me sad to think of pieces of the river clawed apart by a rusty old machine.
Sometimes I think the human heart is like a river. Perhaps the experiences of our lives are the currents that push on us- slowsly filling us with bitterness or love. With memories and hurt. As independent people we protect our hearts, even after they're so filled they're barely of any use to us. We protect what has washed ashore- holding onto muddy sand and pollutants that are mixed with gems and gold pieces.
And then we meet someone. We meet someone but our hearts are already so full of stuff that in order to let them in, we must dredge. Take a claw to our insides and pull out all these old pieces of ourselves. The hurt. The protective layers. Until there is room for another person- not to sail by, but to stay. To drop anchor. My heart feels a little stirred up these days. A little bit dredged. But I'm making room for another. Always, making room.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Day 89: Why we fight for love
I've just watched Revolutionary Road, an unsettling film about marriage and selfishness. When a particular scene from a film strikes me, it snaps- like a picture in my mind-and holds as a still image. And so I have this frame of a husband and wife fighting. His face is literally bulging, the veins popping out the sides of his head with hands clenched and knuckled. Her hair is everywhere- just a crazy blond mess and she's got a smoldering cigarette in one hand with wide crazy eyes as she yells at him to just shut up for five minutes.
I wonder what in the world are they fighting for. Can this be love?
I always thought that fighting for a marriage was a sort of boxing match that couple's squared off in. I imagined raised voices and flying dishclothes. This conflict, I thought, was a sign of life. And for the first year of our marriage I tried to mimick this sort of full-contact love. I remember the first time I whipped a dishtowel at Rich. We were fighting and yelling and I was getting so worked up, I don't even remember what it was about. I grabbed the closet soft object, a dish towel and balled it up and hurled it at my husband. It's not really possible to hurl a dishcloth, so it rather landed with a soft thunk on his shoulder. I expected him to laugh at me or throw it back or come over and kiss me good. But he just looked at me like I was some kind of stranger, then turned and walked away.
I know now that I've got it all wrong. Fighting for your marriage isn't a fight against your partner, it's a fight against your own self. It's the conflict of my own desires against the truth of what we need, together. Fighting for love is sacrifice. It doesn't have to be loud or angry. But it has to be real, and I think it has to be a bit uncomfortable. Fighting for love is a risky battle, as we allow pieces of ourselves to fall away- to matter less and less. But we fight for our marriages, we fight for love, because it's the only fight where everyone wins. And because in losing ourselves we find so much more in each other.
I wonder what in the world are they fighting for. Can this be love?
I always thought that fighting for a marriage was a sort of boxing match that couple's squared off in. I imagined raised voices and flying dishclothes. This conflict, I thought, was a sign of life. And for the first year of our marriage I tried to mimick this sort of full-contact love. I remember the first time I whipped a dishtowel at Rich. We were fighting and yelling and I was getting so worked up, I don't even remember what it was about. I grabbed the closet soft object, a dish towel and balled it up and hurled it at my husband. It's not really possible to hurl a dishcloth, so it rather landed with a soft thunk on his shoulder. I expected him to laugh at me or throw it back or come over and kiss me good. But he just looked at me like I was some kind of stranger, then turned and walked away.
I know now that I've got it all wrong. Fighting for your marriage isn't a fight against your partner, it's a fight against your own self. It's the conflict of my own desires against the truth of what we need, together. Fighting for love is sacrifice. It doesn't have to be loud or angry. But it has to be real, and I think it has to be a bit uncomfortable. Fighting for love is a risky battle, as we allow pieces of ourselves to fall away- to matter less and less. But we fight for our marriages, we fight for love, because it's the only fight where everyone wins. And because in losing ourselves we find so much more in each other.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Day 88: Doubts and Questions
We promised alot of things. We promised back rubs. We promised to spend less money on clothes. But we never promised easy days. We never promised that we would feel like waltzing through sunsets. The promise was that we would be there. We wouldn't bail.
I thought that by now things would go easy. As if 100 days of intentional loving would set us up for five decades of romance. If I've learned anything, it's that the working doesn't end. And I'm hanging onto these 100 days, dragging out the last ten entries because I'm afraid that when it's over, it's over. What if I didn't learn anything? What if I don't know how to be a better wife? What if I end up at the place where we started?
It's not about just coexisting, I want to be spectactular. I want this brilliant flawless partnership, like the paddling of a kayak or the flying v of migrating birds. What if there isn't anything great about us?
I can't stand hiking anymore, you already know that by now. But I realized today that I don't like to hike because it's so much work. Too much. And the view at the top may be incredible, but all that sweat just isn't worth it to me. What if it's the same way with my marriage? What if one day I realize that the work doesn't pay off. And I won't have children as evidence of this partnership of ours. So if it all gets to be too much, what will stop me from giving up? I don't want to give up, I want to know how to keep love alive. And I'm afraid that if I don't learn something huge in the next ten days, I'll sign off the same as I always have been. Selfish. Single-minded. Unwilling to wash dishes.
We haven't seen each all week. He leaves for work at 5 am and we're both crashed before primetime even starts. And in the few moments we're together, we're going over houses to look at and bills to pay and how much can we put in saving this week and it all feels like a business. I'm aware of how whiny I sound, but like a kid who can't stop complaining these fears and bits of anxiety bubble out, even as I tell myself to stop it this instant. 100 Days of Love and the work doesn't end. I guess the good news is that the love doesn't end either.
I thought that by now things would go easy. As if 100 days of intentional loving would set us up for five decades of romance. If I've learned anything, it's that the working doesn't end. And I'm hanging onto these 100 days, dragging out the last ten entries because I'm afraid that when it's over, it's over. What if I didn't learn anything? What if I don't know how to be a better wife? What if I end up at the place where we started?
It's not about just coexisting, I want to be spectactular. I want this brilliant flawless partnership, like the paddling of a kayak or the flying v of migrating birds. What if there isn't anything great about us?
I can't stand hiking anymore, you already know that by now. But I realized today that I don't like to hike because it's so much work. Too much. And the view at the top may be incredible, but all that sweat just isn't worth it to me. What if it's the same way with my marriage? What if one day I realize that the work doesn't pay off. And I won't have children as evidence of this partnership of ours. So if it all gets to be too much, what will stop me from giving up? I don't want to give up, I want to know how to keep love alive. And I'm afraid that if I don't learn something huge in the next ten days, I'll sign off the same as I always have been. Selfish. Single-minded. Unwilling to wash dishes.
We haven't seen each all week. He leaves for work at 5 am and we're both crashed before primetime even starts. And in the few moments we're together, we're going over houses to look at and bills to pay and how much can we put in saving this week and it all feels like a business. I'm aware of how whiny I sound, but like a kid who can't stop complaining these fears and bits of anxiety bubble out, even as I tell myself to stop it this instant. 100 Days of Love and the work doesn't end. I guess the good news is that the love doesn't end either.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Day 87: Wild Crocuses
Today I saw the first crocus of the year. A little purple guy poking up through the mud on the side of a dirt path, walking on my way to work. I'm not a big flower girl, but crocuses do to me what a hundred roses never will. They give a little bit of hope during a time when the world is bare. We're in the homestretch of the cold season, dangling in this place between winter and spring where it's all frozen winds and gray skies and mud.
When I was a kid I would run up our (long) driveway after school and everyday to check behind a certain rock. I was waiting for the crocuses to bloom. It started with just a sprout or two behind this old boulder, but by the time I was in middle school (and had to act like I didn't care about anything anyway) the wild flowers had spread around the rock. A little flock of wild hope that pushed through a still frozen ground while the rest of the world was still hidden.
Wild Crocuses remind me that some things are worth fighting for.
They tell me not to be afraid to bloom in winter. That sometimes love is muddy and sometimes it's cold. Lately I've wanted to just keep to myself and wait for another sunny day, a day when I feel like loving him better. But the crocus rejects this sort of hibernation, declaring that there must be a flower brave enough to bear the cold. So that others may walk by and see this bit of beauty and find hope.
I want to pick this wild crocus and tuck it behind my ear. But I'm late for a meeting and my days are moving fast, so I leave the bloom for another to see and smile my way down the path. Because it's almost spring and because I have someone to hope with. A love worth fighting for.
When I was a kid I would run up our (long) driveway after school and everyday to check behind a certain rock. I was waiting for the crocuses to bloom. It started with just a sprout or two behind this old boulder, but by the time I was in middle school (and had to act like I didn't care about anything anyway) the wild flowers had spread around the rock. A little flock of wild hope that pushed through a still frozen ground while the rest of the world was still hidden.
Wild Crocuses remind me that some things are worth fighting for.
They tell me not to be afraid to bloom in winter. That sometimes love is muddy and sometimes it's cold. Lately I've wanted to just keep to myself and wait for another sunny day, a day when I feel like loving him better. But the crocus rejects this sort of hibernation, declaring that there must be a flower brave enough to bear the cold. So that others may walk by and see this bit of beauty and find hope.
I want to pick this wild crocus and tuck it behind my ear. But I'm late for a meeting and my days are moving fast, so I leave the bloom for another to see and smile my way down the path. Because it's almost spring and because I have someone to hope with. A love worth fighting for.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Day 86: Love and Hiking
It's hiking season and I don't like to hike. I mean, I would rather do almost anything else on a warm Spring day. I would rather clean the window sills with a toothbrush. I would rather vacumn all the crevices in our small automobile and sift through the contents for lost earrings and coins. Gross. But Rich loves hiking with a fascination that is growing at a rapid speed, so today I find myself crisscrossing down the back of a New Hampshire trail. We've lost the path but have found a dirt road and are headed in what we hope is the right direction. Seriously, I don't like to hike.
What I should do is just tell him I'm not into mountains. That my legs scream and my face is puffy and red and I can't catch enough air to do more than grunt. It's torture, and I'm swearing up a storm in my head everytime we're faked out by a false summit. But the outdoors is part of who we are together. Rich and I met in the Adirondacks. Our dates were long drives by still lakes and campfires. We fell in love to the sound of loons and the smell of pines. If I tell him I don't like to hike, I'm telling him that I've changed. That I'm not the same person that he chose four summers ago. It's risky. Like the private property that we've wandered into- an empty house with a confederate flag and a dozen keep-out signs.
I know that everyone changes. Change is energy and energy is life. And my hope is that when you're with someone you love- with them so tightly that you are bound together, the change that happens is a reflection of growing together. Maybe change can be a healthy shedding of the parts of us that have died, so that our new parts can grow. It's spring and I want to grow. I want to watch the mountains out the back window of a house that is our own. I want to walk along the sands, next to the sea. I don't want to spend my every Saturday on a trail that became a road that became a backyard and is now a state route- four (uphill) miles from where we've parked the car. I'm not a hiker anymore and it's time I say so.
What I should do is just tell him I'm not into mountains. That my legs scream and my face is puffy and red and I can't catch enough air to do more than grunt. It's torture, and I'm swearing up a storm in my head everytime we're faked out by a false summit. But the outdoors is part of who we are together. Rich and I met in the Adirondacks. Our dates were long drives by still lakes and campfires. We fell in love to the sound of loons and the smell of pines. If I tell him I don't like to hike, I'm telling him that I've changed. That I'm not the same person that he chose four summers ago. It's risky. Like the private property that we've wandered into- an empty house with a confederate flag and a dozen keep-out signs.
I know that everyone changes. Change is energy and energy is life. And my hope is that when you're with someone you love- with them so tightly that you are bound together, the change that happens is a reflection of growing together. Maybe change can be a healthy shedding of the parts of us that have died, so that our new parts can grow. It's spring and I want to grow. I want to watch the mountains out the back window of a house that is our own. I want to walk along the sands, next to the sea. I don't want to spend my every Saturday on a trail that became a road that became a backyard and is now a state route- four (uphill) miles from where we've parked the car. I'm not a hiker anymore and it's time I say so.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Day 85: Cherry Cordials
It's 4 pm on a Monday afternoon and I've left work early to stand in the chocolate aisle of Wal Mart, flipping through Russell Stovers Assorted chocolates. Not for me. Oh, most definitely not for me.
It all started yesterday. I was 24 ounces lighter when Rich's mother left a message on our phone. Said she bought a computer. Said she was online now, so we could chat. And didn't we even care about her at all? Rich doesn't seem phased in the least as he adds her name online. But I know where this is going, and the truth is, I'm still mad about the smoking.
He says, "Come on, honey, it's no big deal."
I say, "It is a big deal. She represents the opposite of love. She never even asks how you're doing. She only cares about herself and she hurt you and she eliminated our future generations. So, no, I won't add her as my Facebook friend." Even as I speak the words aloud I am hit with how silly they sound. But I am crazy angry, all this blame that I thought was gone has been hiding and it's back.
I need to do something, and so I rifle through her birthday presents that have sat by the front door for over a month, waiting to be mailed. I know what I'm looking for. I tear the wrapping paper off her box of assorted chocolates and within seven minutes I've polished off a pound and a half of truffles and raspberry cordials and delicate lemon cremes enrobed in 70% cocoa. I'm not proud of this, but it's what I did. A nonviolent protest of sorts.
And this morning I woke up nearly two pounds heavier. I can feel the sugar in my gut; an uncomfortable tightness in my pants that reminds me of my own selfishness and hard heart.
I understand that to love my husband, I must make peace with his family. I can't change the past, but I can let it go and find a new freedom in our future together. A future where we're not just a set of DNA. Where our children will have all sorts of family history, but what will matter most is the family that we become together.
So, for the tenth time, I'm letting it go. And I'm standing here, in the Chocolate aisle, to make good on my chocolate disaster. Cherry cordials, I eventually decide. Because I remember her saying she liked them... and I know for a fact that I don't.
It all started yesterday. I was 24 ounces lighter when Rich's mother left a message on our phone. Said she bought a computer. Said she was online now, so we could chat. And didn't we even care about her at all? Rich doesn't seem phased in the least as he adds her name online. But I know where this is going, and the truth is, I'm still mad about the smoking.
He says, "Come on, honey, it's no big deal."
I say, "It is a big deal. She represents the opposite of love. She never even asks how you're doing. She only cares about herself and she hurt you and she eliminated our future generations. So, no, I won't add her as my Facebook friend." Even as I speak the words aloud I am hit with how silly they sound. But I am crazy angry, all this blame that I thought was gone has been hiding and it's back.
I need to do something, and so I rifle through her birthday presents that have sat by the front door for over a month, waiting to be mailed. I know what I'm looking for. I tear the wrapping paper off her box of assorted chocolates and within seven minutes I've polished off a pound and a half of truffles and raspberry cordials and delicate lemon cremes enrobed in 70% cocoa. I'm not proud of this, but it's what I did. A nonviolent protest of sorts.
And this morning I woke up nearly two pounds heavier. I can feel the sugar in my gut; an uncomfortable tightness in my pants that reminds me of my own selfishness and hard heart.
I understand that to love my husband, I must make peace with his family. I can't change the past, but I can let it go and find a new freedom in our future together. A future where we're not just a set of DNA. Where our children will have all sorts of family history, but what will matter most is the family that we become together.
So, for the tenth time, I'm letting it go. And I'm standing here, in the Chocolate aisle, to make good on my chocolate disaster. Cherry cordials, I eventually decide. Because I remember her saying she liked them... and I know for a fact that I don't.
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