Honestly?

I don’t even know anymore.*

*Not that I really did, although I was convinced that I did up until about six or seven years ago. But now I’m certain that I don’t. And I don’t know where to start or if it’s even worth starting and it’s not bad and it’s not good and what it all boils down to is that I’m a giant wuss and no amount of begging the Universe for a pair of white-gold-dipped balls is actually changing that at the moment and that’s frustrating on top of everything else slowly stacking itself on each other. So, even though there’s a lot going on, there’s really nothing happening.
Because of me.
Being chickenshit.
And then hating it.
And then hating myself for hating it.

… And I’m tired. I think tired is coming in at a close second. Like, really long-term, weary, worn-out tired. It’s like I’ve spent since I was 13 overanalyzing and oversentimentalizing everything and then I ramped that up in the last few years with the mental workout of recovery and now something in my brain just finally powered down and now I don’t want to do any of it which doesn’t really help me because I’m pretty lazy when it comes right down to it but I kinda felt productive in my inactivity before now because at least I was dissecting and understanding everything but now that I’m not even doing that I’m really just not doing anything at all.

I really miss being able to blame my ineptitude on being completely out of my mind.

I’m still kind of in awe with how much I love my husband.

Usually, when I say that I love him, it’s more of a declaration (Like, “My husband brought me flowers and let me sleep in. I looove hiiim.” although not always in response to gifts or kindness, of course.) but recently it’s been a kind of s surprised realization as I’m reflecting on how much more massive my love for him is in comparison to anything I’ve ever been a part of before.

Here’s where I’m going with this: My feelings of love come not only from the incredible joy he brings my life but from the unbelievable relief I feel with him from the pain usually associated with my love life. For yeeeeaaars, my ideas of what made a functional relationship were so skewed and generally fucked up that I’d made a lifestyle out of tolerating bullshit and abuse from my romantic partners and accepting that earth-crumbling feeling of betrayal as something that was just a natural part of any relationship. But now, about every few months or so, I stop and realize how far away I’ve been from that lifestyle since I’ve been with him. There’s never been a night we went to bed angry, there’s never been that terrible feeling in my gut when I caught him doing something horrible behind my back, there’s never been a time where I was made to feel guilty for something he’s done wrong, and there’s never ever been a single moment where I’ve worried about his whereabouts or motives or activities away from me. It’s amazing.

And, in turn, it’s made me step up my game too. When I was in shitty relationships before now, my partner usually never cared enough about me to worry about where I was, who I was with, etc. When I lied about something it was rarely discovered and when it was all was easily forgotten as said partner never wasted too much time focusing on how to repair our ever-deteriorating trust in each other. I still went above and beyond my basic relationship responsibilities in most cases, being generous with gifts and time and effort but I was never held accountable for any crappy behavior this state of apathy allowed me to get away with. With my husband, I see that he’s always emotionally available, he’s always honest, he’s always keeping me and the Bear in the forefront of his mind and all his efforts to maintain an ideal relationship gives me the drive to provide him with the same in return.

This is not to say we never have arguments and never make mistakes, of course. The difference is that the problems and mistakes we do encounter are never ever based in fear or mistrust or any completely trivial mind-fuckery. The problems are usually exterior and, when they’re not, we’re able to honestly tackle them together instead of having to rely on one party to straighten out their crappy behavior or mentality.

And trying to keep up with him has changed me in ways I never would’ve thought possible a few years ago. I’ve always been one for secrets and lies, always into hiding away into vices and escapes from the immediate pains of my daily life but, being with someone who a) doesn’t make me hurt and b) doesn’t resort to lies or secrets himself has driven me to get rid of this sort of sick mentality of mine (which I thought was impossible considering I’d done it for so so long.) I’ve become more patient and tolerant which may not look like much in comparison to him but is pretty tremendous in comparison to what I used to be like a few years ago. (In fact, recently I’ve been AMAZED with how I’ve been able to maintain my decorum – just for the sake of my husband’s peace – around exterior antagonists.) It sounds like such a line but he’s made me a better person… or at least given me the drive to hold myself to higher standards.

And I’m positive I’ve never been more proud of anyone (anyone) in my life. In addition to jumping on board with the unexpected pregnancy and working his ass off to make me and the Bear comfortable, he’s one of those people who says he wants to do things and then makes them happen. Every time. But even more impressive is the fact that he’s remarkably selfless in his work and efforts to provide for us.

My major example is this: a while ago, the company he has been working for was about to lay him off due to this superawesome economy but a few of his coworkers cared enough about him to move around some funds and use him to replace a few outside contractors. Not only did that sort of generosity say a lot about my husband’s character but it said an incredible amount about the kindness of everyone at said company. But, while we were both incredibly grateful that he even had a job at all, the one he was designated was one requiring mindless physical labor that was usually performed by high school dropouts or immediate graduates. My husband did this work diligently and thoroughly but was constantly questioning himself and his talents because of the nature of work and was unbelievably self-conscious about what this sort of work said about him as a person. I kept trying to explain to him that it’s far less impressive for a family’s breadwinner to be working hard and raking in millions. I’m much more proud that I have a partner who will toss his ego to the side and do what he needs to do to provide for his family, even if it’s work that requires no intelligence or talent. In fact, I think having a husband who took this job with no questions asked and performed it to the best of his abilities without a moment’s hesitation is an incredible testament to his character and fills me with pride and gratitude at having someone so amazing to trust with the rest of my life.

Now, as we’re looking to move to a new town in a different state because of a job opportunity he beat out 60 local applicants for, I’m somehow even more full of pride and gratitude that I’m able to count on him during this and any other forward movements we as a family will make. It’s really an incredible feeling that I fight the urge to gush about daily and am literally constantly overflowing with joy about. I still battle the feelings of doubt and guilt I experience when wondering what I possibly did to deserve a husband and a daughter who are so emotionally fulfilling but, knowing what a waste of time that is, I try to focus on positive! Forward moving! Happy! Love!

I do love my husband.

(RE: The Title. Name that showtune!)

~ There are two moments in sitcom history that make me cry everysingletime I see them in reruns. The first is when Jack and Karen sing “Unforgettable” in the series finale of “Will and Grace”. The second is episode 424 of “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” (‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Excuse’) when Will’s father Lou shows up for the first time in 15 years. They bond and decide to turn over a new leaf, Lou (played by the incomparable Ben Vereen) agreeing to let Will travel with him back to the East Coast for the summer. At the very end of the episode, however, Will’s dad bails on him again and leaves the news with Uncle Phil who tells him what a disgusting father he is. This is enough to get the Choke Throat but when Will learns of it he presents this monologue that is perhaps the most moving thing I’ve ever seen Smith perform and easily one of the best moments ever on prime-time television. (Watch the 3-minute monologue HERE. And get some tissues ready. That last line is the nail in the coffin.)

~A reader just told me she missed my prattlings so this is really what this blog entry is about. I’ve been superbusy between this new business prospect Greg and I are fervently collaborating on and working toward, battling this ongoing undiagnosed gastrointestinal problem, studying like a maniac for the GRE (and only feeling dumber by the day, still), running a functioning household, holding down the freelance writing gigs I do have, and trying to talk myself into starting Chloe’s socialization practices (Mother’s Morning Out, playdates, etc.)

I’ve still been writing to my pen pal every week and I’m honestly still enjoying it and our deep conversations. Although we haven’t spoken directly about her specific crime, she has mentioned that a lot of people have sent her hate mail over the years after seeing her listing on WriteAPrisoner.com but she feels the same way I do in that she doesn’t require forgiveness from anyone other than herself, her Higher Power, and those that she has directly harmed. It sounds like, after 7 years in the slammer, she’s really used the resources that the prison does implement to start mental recovery. She’s mentioned that, if anything, the penal system only produces criminals unless the prisoners actively seek out help and reform, which is what she feels is the best expenditure of her time. I admire that. I also really like that she’s not an idiot. I know that sounds bad, but she never graduated from high school, so I kind of expected someone not quite literate or some other shallow preconceived notion of what an unfinished undergrad education would provide [that I realize is horribly wrong of me so there's no need for a preachy commentary.] However, not only is she rather intelligent and self-educated, she’s really into literary criticism and philosophy, which I love! I’ve been looking for someone to indulge my penchant for critical analysis and general bookish nerdiness and that’s something we both share, not having anyone to really compare mental notes with. It’s nice.

Me and Greg are working hard on our new project and hope to launch it in the next 6 weeks. I’ll be sure to start plugging it publicly once we’re on the brink of a formal presentation. Although it’s a bit of a risk and there’s no guaranteed success with it, it’s something we’re excited about simply because we feel like we’re being proactive about our progress and our future and we finally have something that we can work on that isn’t directly dependent on the responses of other people. (Although any business eventually is, it’s not up to other people whether or not we get it started.) Plus, it’s inexpensive and will only cost our time and energy, so this makes it another appealing risk that we can afford to take at the moment. Sorry to be so vague; again, details will come in the next month. I promise.

Somehow, I’m staying busy but still managing to read a new book about once a week, which leads me to highly recommend Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Jesus’ Childhood Friend. First of all, it’s HILARIOUS and, although irreverent mostly, it always keeps the pure image of Jesus intact so there’s never any rewriting of recorded history involved (and, thus, no book burning by crazy Christian fanatics whose faith is threatened by literary musings… idiots…) Like other Jesus fanfiction I’ve read, Moore tries to fill in the blanks of what really happened during those years between 12 and 30 but, unlike the other works (the dreadful version Anne Rice cranked out is what I’m mostly referring to), he never diverted from fact, but really gave Jesus a humanistic character, in that he had the same cravings and feelings of any young man and wasn’t some omniscient being right from the start. Moore also takes the time to make a few little side jokes pertaining to modern cliches and unanswered religious traditions. For example, Christ and Biff spend their adolescence(s?) seeking the 3 wise men who apparently knew that Jesus was something important when he first showed up on earth and trying to get answers about his supposed identity from them. They spend Christ’s 18th birthday with Balthazar, who lives in a fortress with a demon he keeps captive in exchange for eternal life (not relevant to this story) and 8 Chinese concubines (who are fantastic lovers and have hilarious names to coincide. Like the girl called “Keeper of the Three Tunnels of Excessive Friendliness”) who make him a glorious feast of Chinese cuisine. Biff points out that eating Chinese food on Christ’s birthday is a tradition that Jews have maintained up until today. Heh. That’s just clever. So yeah, it’s the best book I’ve read in a longlong time, which was sadly followed by Rue McClanahan’s “My Five Husbands” which is the most boring piece of drivel I’ve ever picked up. (Seriously, it’s like she didn’t even have an editor.)

So that’s the news in brief. Correspondence, perpetual health issues, plans to visit my Gran in a couple weeks, reading, studying, working on secret business mission, writing, researching grants and scholarships for both grad school and this research book I’m still planning to write… You know, the norm.

The Bear is 17 months old this week which means it’s time for another trip to Wal-Mart for ubercheap pro photos to send to family and friends. At the moment she has 2 ear infections (I hope we’re not going to have to get tubes put in,) a disgusting scalp condition that is requiring a steroid cream to treat, and the worse diaper rash she’s seen yet (which really isn’t that bad considering this is only her second.) So between my mental and gastrointestinal prescripts and her various drugs, I’ve been to the pharmacy 3 times in 8 days and I’m sure they’re convinced I’m a hypocondriac. Although aside from prescription buttcream, I HIGHLY recommend Bordreaux’s Butt Paste (that’s the real name) for diaper rashes even though it smells exactly like every Ben and Jerry’s Scoop Shop I’ve ever visited. (Seriously. I don’t know why.)

~ This all brings me to the piece de resistance, which is for me to indulge on my worst guilty pleasure to date: American Idol: Season 8

First of all, even though I wasn’t particularly “rooting” for anyone, I’m really glad Kris won. Not only was he by far the most talented musician, but he brought something new to the show, which was the exercising of artistic talent. I loved his rearrangements of popular classics and really think he’s one of those artists we may be watching for a while. Granted, I don’t really get into the whole Jason Mraz/Jack Johnson/Ben Harper acoustic-sensitive-guy thing so much (I tried. I really did. I just can’t. After DMB’s “Crash” I just lost interest. I need rock. All the time.) so I won’t probably won’t be buying his albums, but I think he has great potential to turn that genre on it’s ear. And that’s exciting. Also, while Adam Lambert is fun to watch and/or look at, his need to shriek his high-note talent at the end of every song like it’s a freaking magic trick is going to get really old. Plus, he really didn’t do anything too different to compete with Kris’ arrangement talents and, the one time he did, it was kind of boring. I will say, however, that his finale show with KISS was b’dass and I was totally enrapt during the whole performance. It’s amazing someone could make KISS fun and relevant again, if only for a few minutes.

The other unsung performance of the finale show was Cyndi Lauper and Allison “The Latina Kelly Clarkson” Iraheta doing a beautiful rendition of “Time After Time”. And who knew Lauper could rock a dulcimer?! She wins bonus bonus fanpoints from me.

And then, of course, there was Nick Mitchell “Norman Gentle”‘s unexpected return to the Idol stage, which sent me off my seat in excitement. Sure, the boy’s only got one song that’s worth a damn, but I think he’s genius for having the balls to take a comedy-based fictitious character/performance art piece to a pop-oriented show like AI. I hope to God he gets some gigs and starts running the cabaret circuit. I’d buy tickets to any show he books anywhere close to the Southeast.

The rest of it was just kinda “meh” for me. I don’t like Rod Stewart at all, but watching him drunkenly stumble around was interesting. And Greg and I do a great rendition of Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long”, so it was fun to treat ourselves to that. And that was about it.

This weekend, my husband not only acquired a beautiful (huge!) new desk for me to have my own workspace, but he set up one of his old[er] computers so I’d have one to work on (he even transferred all my files from his to mine), organized the desk area with a mini-hutch and other office-space accoutrement, AND gave me three hours to organize my countless files and binders and Sharpies (I have a real problem) while he watched the Bear yesterday afternoon. All of this without me ever asking for any of it. (He claims it’s all because he hates sharing a workspace with me, but I’m convinced that if this were the case, he would have taken this new desk and left me with the crappier one he’s still using.)

Have I mentioned that he’s perfect?

This essay is important to me but atrociously long! So… sorry about that. Just thought I’d forewarn you.

The wedding was Greg’s idea. When we were first dating, about a month before we knew we were pregnant and got engaged and all that, we somehow found ourselves discussing this blown-out-of-proportion-weddings culture we live in, girls’ pathetic lifelong obsessions with planning a wedding and sprinting down the aisle and our dream weddings. Me being a chronic anti-bride, I honestly had no idea what sounded ideal or even enticing to me. I was one of those strange girls who never ever fantasized about her wedding day in her youth and really had only vaguely entertained the idea of my personal wedding when I found myself attending the weddings of peers and even then it was with an air of complete apathy. But Greg said plainly, “I’ve always wanted to get married on some tropical island on a white sand beach somewhere.” I kind of sighed with the idea of something so unobtainable and never really thought about it again.

Then, about a year later we found ourselves wading through the beginning levels of planning a wedding. Quickly it became apparent that neither one of us could care any less about how it looked, where it was going to be, what anyone was going to wear or ANY of the other bullshit that accompanies the modern-traditional American nuptial festivities. When my sister and best friend all but dragged me into a bridal shop to consider bridesmaid’s dresses, the realization that this was only the beginning of being stressed out about traditions and expectations that I’d always thought were pointless, utter wastes of money. When we were finally honest with each other, Greg and I realized that neither one of us could muster any enthusiasm at all about finding a venue or inviting guests or anything we’d planned to do and maybe we were just kind of doing it because we were always told that this is what everyone wanted.

After this realization came to light, Greg sat back on our couch and pinched that place between his eyes that I’d only ever seen adults do until we had our daughter. He sighed, “I just wish we could run off and get married on some tropical beach. Just the two of us.”

I laughed, “Oh man, me too. That would be so freaking easy.”

And then as we listed the logistics (and unbelievable monetary savings) of just running off and getting married, we suddenly realized that this was exactly what we both wanted and were filled with excitement for the first time since we’d started wedding plans. Long story short, my family was excited and supportive, his parents/family was very very not. However, within a week we had found a place to stay on the Hawaiian island of Kauai, found a real, practicing minister to marry us, worked out a deal with a local professional photographer for a cheaper-than-usual wedding package, and booked a flight for late September 2008.

With hindsight being far clearer than foresight, there’s still nothing about The Day that we would change from our current perspective.

Still on East Coast time, I “slept in” until 3 a.m. when I stepped out onto our bungalow’s treetop balcony to call my mother and check in on our nine-month-old daughter. (Being away from my baby for more than a day was starting to build a sense of homesickness in my chest and I all week I longed for just a moment here and there to snuggle her and nuzzle into her soft warmth.)

When Greg was finally roused from his sleep around 7, we lazily made our way into the tiny village of Kapa’a and occupied a booth at the Ono (Hawaiian for “delicious”) Family Restaurant where we had local coffee and tropical variations of breakfast staples. (Pineapple pancake syrup is MAGIC.) We paid our tab, waited outside a tiny local florist’s until she arrived fifteen minutes late (which we’d grown used to in the laid-back nature of Kauai. Da kine.), and bought from her two miniature ginger blossoms. I later paired these with two tigerlilies and two stargazer lilies that I purchased at a Safeway on the ride home. The entire bridal bouquet cost me less than twenty dollars.

Greg was napping when my hair-and-makeup lady arrived. She was a tiny woman, no younger than 60 but with the lithe energy of a 20-year-old. She yammered cheerfully about the various weddings she had done and the celebrity disasters she had encountered in her line of work and gawked when I told her how cheaply we were renting such a fabulous riverside bungalow, all the while expertly curling and spraying my head, plastering my face with MAC waterproofs, and nestling tiny home-grown orchids and leftover tigerlilies in the firm waves in my hair. After two hours of intensive work, I emerged from my chair and gazed at myself in the mirror to find a natural-looking version of myself… only undeniably better.

The dress was far too expensive for an oceanfront wedding with no guests, but it was simply too divine to forgo. A Monroe-style halter created a tone of relaxed elegance, while the rutched bodice hugged every curve right down past my hips for a slightly-daring, sultry edge.  Taffeta pushed the a-line skirt away from my legs and gently smoothed down into a subtle train, adorned with tiny beads and a few hints of lace. And finally, I was able to release my gown from its captivity in a generic hanging bag, in which it had been transported over 3,000 miles under my watchful eye for this exact moment.

In the first defiant rejection of conventional nuptial tradition, I rounded the corner to where Greg was fastening the coconut-shell buttons on his Hawaiian wedding shirt. Stopping halfway up his abdomen, he stammered for a moment before murmuring a gentle, “Wow…” and eagerly leaping across the room to zip and latch me into my dress.

It seemed we were forgetting something as we left the bungalow, but realized that it was the utter simplicity and ease of the day that was throwing off our internal wedding-preparation-gauge. Equipped with our attire and wedding bands, we loaded ourselves and all of my dress into the rented Jeep Wrangler and began the 30 minute drive to Koloa.

We wound our way through narrow village streets until we turned off onto a long, muddy driveway that took us to the parsonage. Tucked behind the Koloa Missionary Church, the house was a tiny grey building surrounded by dilapidated cars and wild roosters who were attempting to woo the chickens squawking inside a rustic pen. In our full wedding attire, we laughingly braved the mud and scrambled to the house’s front stoop. The minister was the first to the door, followed closely by a young boy and a baby scooting around in a walker. He was cheerful, answering the door in an opened Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts an introducing himself in his cool voice that sounded not at all unlike that of Tommy Chong. He agreed to lead the way to a private spot on Shipwreck Beach and sent us back to our Jeep.

However, as we were turning on the car to begin backing out of the driveway, we saw the preacher running up to us, waving his hands to get our attention. As he came closer to Greg’s window, we saw that he was carrying what appeared to be part of an animal’s skull… AND INDEED IT WAS! The minister proudly showed us the jaw of the wild boar he had most recently slaughtered and pointed toward his cart port, which had boar jaws lining the walls.

“Yeah, man. ” He said to neither of us in particular. “I’ve killed about 80 so far this year. I usually get to about a hundred or so, but yeah. That’s what I do.”

I was sort of expecting this to have some sort of relevance to our particular situation, considering it was, after all, our wedding day. I figured maybe it was some ancient Hawaiian tradition to have newlyweds rub a boar jaw for luck or something along those lines, but the pastor quickly answered that question for me.

“So yeah, man. I just wanted to let you know a little about myself. Not only am I a minister, but I hunt wild boar, too.”

And then he was gone, jogging back to his car casually as if to infer that this was a part of every wedding he performed. Greg and I looked at each other and broke into muffled hysterics at the realization that this man clearly had a touch of The Crazy.

Nevertheless, we followed him closely to a tiny beach access point where we filled out appropriate nuptial legal paperwork and met our beloved photographer. Even though we’d talked on the phone and exchanged numerous emails, the photographer was even more sparkly and jubilant than I’d ever predicted. She hugged the pastor and greeted him with familiar formalities and then gave us comfortable, laughing hugs too. Without too much hesitation, we made our way to the beachfront.

The pastor lead us down an obscured trail to a small private beach, overlooking a rough surf that gave spectacular splashes as the waves smashed against the countless rocks. It was an extraordinarily beautiful day on the island. In the three days prior, we’d quickly learned that short but massive, sudden downpours were an inevitable part of local daily life. Somehow The Day we were married we didn’t see a single dark cloud, a fact that both the pastor and the photographer remarked on.

Triumphantly, our pastor blew into an enormous conch shell, signaling to the gods the commencement of a notorious occasion. I won’t go into the explicit detail of the ceremony as I feel many of the vows and moments shared during that time are sacred and private between myself and my husband, but it was easily the most beautiful wedding ceremony I’ve ever heard. It stepped far outside the traditional vows and, instead, acknowledged and addressed us as real people with real emotions and intentions. Instead of promising our obedience [and those other outdated inferences of exchanging chattel], we promised to respect each other, build each other up, never speak ill of each other and always take time to physically touch each other (even in nonsexual circumstances). I don’t think I could have composed a more ideal wedding ceremony if I’d come up with the vows myself.

Anyway, the ceremony ended and I flung my arms around my new husband to deliver what the photographer dubbed, “the best wedding kiss I’ve ever seen in 20 years in this profession.” We gave the minister our heartfelt thanks, wished him well, and began the only wedding-related extra that I’d ever been excited about: The Trash The Dress photo shoot. Bubbly and brimming with creative ideas, the photographer giggled through our ice-cream toast (I had a Nestle Drumstick. He had a Haagen Daaz double chocolate bar.) and immediately began posing us in a series of unconventional wedding portraits. She didn’t immediately plunge us headfirst into the water or anything and she spent about an hour taking land-locked, dry portraits before we totaled our attire. As we splashed around in our wedding formals, a crowd of onlookers gathered behind our photographer, taking pictures of what must’ve appeared to be insane newlyweds frolicking in the surf. She didn’t mind, but I realized about halfway through the shoot that we were probably going to end up with an entire portfolio of us making out as we were suddenly unable to keep our hands off each other. Despite being covered in chunky, Pacific sand and soaked to the bone, we were light on our feet and disgustingly juvenile in our overzealous PDA.

When we lost too much light to continue, the photographer called it a wrap and excitedly let us look at some of the photos she’d taken. (She invited us back to her home studio later that week to look at all of the proofs after being edited. She rocked my face off.) Freezing, we stripped off our sopping clothes – mine being notably heavier as sand and saltwater had collected thickly in the bodice’s rutching – behind the towel our photographer kindly held up for us and started the long drive back to our bungalow, chattering and naked except for the beach towels draped around us.

We bathed. I took a garden hose to my relatively expensive wedding gown (the rest of my extensive family would laugh out loud at the country-bumpkin-esque noion that an off-the-rack gown costing less than $600 could be considered “expensive”) and hung it over a twisted magnolia tree in the back yard. Thoroughly exhausted, we attempted to spend our first dinner as a married couple at a fancy restaurant and, when the hostess told us it would be a fifteen minute wait, we caved in and went next door to the Pizza Hut/Taco Bell combo.

Greg looked at me over his dinner of nachos and pizza and smiled, “This is the best wedding night dinner EVER. ” He winked at me and added, “In fact, I’m not sure this wedding night could become any more ideal.”

But, of course, it did.

——————-

All this happened exactly six months ago to today.

Proudly, I can say that nothing has changed between us since The Day and, except for my new last name addition and us sporting slightly more jewelry, the shift from “domestic partnerhood” to “married” was completely seamless. All the horror stories about one partner turning into some demon the other doesn’t recognize or the sex (and/or oral) suddenly disappearing or both parties getting comfortable and spending less time together or the arrival of homicidal consideration haven’t threatened us at all. I accredit this to the intimate bond we developed before the marriage (read: baby-having) in addition to cohabiting during our engagement (which I’ve always been a strong advocate for, regardless of the pregnancy situation. In fact, premarital cohabitation is something I will advocate to my daughter when she is in her engagement stages. I think it’s idiotic not to… but that’s just me.) But aside from that, we still have traces of early-relationship symptoms. We still spend every evening together and, even if we’re working on/doing separate things, we insist on being in the same room. We still make dinner together and go to bed at the same time. We still take the time to make meaningful, sensual, luxurious love (as opposed to quick, utilitarian love). We still compliment each other every day. And beyond the mushy crap, we’re still painfully honest with each other, we still have an argument every three months or so and they only last about 15 minutes, and we’ve never ever gone to bed angry or frustrated with the other.

Hooray! Healthy! Loving! Respectful! Functional!

I could resort to such cliches as “It doesn’t seem like that long” and “Time flies when you’re having fun” but, while they do apply, I think they drastically cheapen both occasions – both that Day and this day, six months later. Plus, it’s certainly not necessarily been easy what with having to raise a one-year-old, having to battle the recession, having to deal with my mental relapse, etc. But through every single rough spot, it’s become apparent that we’re going to be here, sticking around for the other and shouldering the brunt of the relationship’s weight when it’s our turn to be leaned on. And no matter which one of us is having to take on that responsibility, we’re still going to assert our feelings and opinions to the other and actively keep the stability of our marriage in tact, despite the circumstances. (From what I’ve seen, this particular habit is often discarded and results in those bitter, long-term [WASP-y] marriages where the two parties resent each other for being disrespected and emotionally stifled. We’re trying to avoid that.)

And I’m well aware that a tiny six months is absolutely nothing in comparison to actual yearly anniversaries, but still, something seems special about having made it to our first notable time-related landmark. We’re still choosing to celebrate it with a special evening for the two of us. Nothing as major as a one-year anniversary, but something special nonetheless.

I guess it’s important to us because it’s the first of many milestones and it signifies that we’re capable of maintaining something healthy and loving and real under the comfortable veil of marriage. But moreso than that, the visible strength in this strong foundation having been proven in the last couple years has given us a great sense of hope and confidence in ourselves as a couple that we can move forward and tackle goals, milestones, and inevitable obstacles together. And, frankly, I think that’s always worth celebrating.

Happy Half-Year Anniversary, lover. You’re my Prime Directive. (I loves.)

As the clouds part and the sun spills in over my mind, my home, and my city, I am suddenly wild with hormones I haven’t experienced since my late adolescence. I am a 17 year-old-boy with permission to fondle his first girlfriend, constantly cornering my husband with passionate kisses and general groping, no matter the setting or circumstance.

My husband is both surprised and ecstatic at greeting this new side of me, given that the majority of our relationship has seen my sexual drive stifled, first by my pregnancy and then by the ensuing wave of depression. Finally, I am the quintessential newlywed, fawning and gushing over my husband as though we are only just physically experiencing each other for the first time. I’ve recently spent hours studying the contours of his body, running my fingers through his hair, smiling at the beauty of his physicality and taking time for slow, concentrated kisses and embraces for the first time since we started dating. 

Additionally, with the gradual melting of extra padding from my frame, I’ve become more comfortable showing myself to him and allowing myself the audacity of emitting sexuality. This, naturally, creates a ripple effect through our love life as we move closer together in our intimacy, regaining rhythm and familiarity to each other’s bodies in the aftermath of the exhausting emotional struggles we’ve weathered in the last two years. I hope I don’t jinx myself, but it seems as though all the romantic and functional components of our relationship together are finally synching up as a much-needed reward for all our recent stress. It’s a break that arrived not a moment too soon.

Relaxed siiiiiggghhh…

My husband is a unique man. He is simple without being simple-minded, caring without being enabling, gentle while maintaining a backbone. He displays humility in all his facets, from intelligence to his appearance. His stunning blue eyes emit kindness and a cool confidence, his art reflects his observations without the need to boast or fling himself into the spotlight. He stands slightly taller than most women, comfortable with blending into the crowd and safe in his identity without needing public adulation. He laughs with ease. He never lies. He always returns home on time. He automatically leaps into an intelligent, compassionate role immediately upon realizing that his support is needed. He has a prominent nose, a sharp jawline, and a subtle, playful smile that makes me giddy and warm inside. He listens to Rush, Queen, Pink Floyd, and Elton John. He is a fan of both Star Trek and Star Wars. He performs professionally and artistically with care and attention to detail, without regard for the positive results his work may garner. He races cars and plans to build his own electric model. He creates art for the sheer pleasure of it without worrying about it’s economic worth or sensibility. He is well-read and is prone to making obscure literary or historic references with ease. He plays the guitar. He collects graphic novels. He smiles the widest when his daughter squeals and runs to him when he walks through the door at the end of the day. He does not wear cologne. He cannot start his day without taking a shower. He takes brilliantly-composed photos. He makes love as though he invented sensuality singlehandedly. He sleeps with more peace and more beauty than I’ve ever seen in a man. 

My husband’s love for me is unquestionable. He brings me flowers when I am least expecting them and tells me I’m beautiful every day, despite my protests. He keeps every loving note or letter I’ve ever given him tucked away in a personal drawer, amongst his most prized possessions. In my darkest hours, he stands by my side, holding my hand and protecting me from any other offenses while nursing me back to health. His dreams always include me, and he never describes them without hoping that I will share in his enthusiasm. He confidently persuades me to let myself be his muse. He loves to spend Sunday afternoons teaching me how to paint, how to draw, how to take better photographs. He spent all the money he received from his college graduation to buy me an engagement ring that I “could be proud of”, even though he was jobless, even though we were terrified at the prospect of soon becoming parents, even though I diligently begged him not to. He knows when my demons are misrepresenting me and waits patiently until I’ve returned to my normal Self. He does not accept me performing below my abilities and strongly urges me to make progress, to push myself forward, to better my life, regardless of the fear of cost or possible failure. He never speaks ill of me, even when those around him are living up to the stereotypes of spouses complaining about each other. He boasts about my accomplishments to others, which I hear about later from those who admire his candid praise. He listens to me prattle on about my opinions or my perspective or my ideas for hours on end. He sees art in me when I do not. He sees promise in me when I cannot. He cherishes our shared memories more than tangible gifts we’ve exchanged. He forgives my mistakes without judging my character. He calms my fears of the future by reminding me that it will always be “our future”. He has changed my beliefs about the practicality and logic of the conventional institution of marriage. 

My husband’s unwavering love gives me sanctuary to love and live in complete, ecstatic, careless freedom.

My husband has never been loved more by any woman than he is by me. He is the first man I think about when I wake up and the reason I sleep every night, next to him, with an idiotic, contented smile across my lips. He is responsible for the giddy realizations of joy and gratitude that sneak up on me every few days. He will have me proudly leading him around, guiding his footsteps in the uncertain changes of old age. He will be the only and last man that I call my husband. He will be the template to which I compare all our daughter’s suitors. He will never fight battles (whether internal or external) without me standing proudly behind him. He has me excited about automatically performing such dreadfully un-feminist chores such as doing his laundry, cleaning his house, massaging his feet. He is the reason I shudder suddenly while I’m lost in thought, remembering the excitement of his touch, often at the most inopportune moments. He never leaves the house without me flinging my arms around him and wishing him a wonderful day. He will always have me at the ready to tend to his wounds, shelter him from blows, nurse him to health, catch him when he loses his footing. He endures the downpour of kisses I maniacally cover him with at the end of each day. He still sends the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy when he returns to me unexpectedly. He has made me forget the specifics of arousal or physical sensations I may have felt with my former suitors. He makes me excited to share my entire life, my entire self with such unabashed intimacy. He makes me optimistic about the life we’re slowly building together. 

My husband is the man I always longed for and never believed existed.

In the last year, I’ve turned into one of those obnoxious women who misses her husband while he’s at work. Even though we spend all our spare time together, my days are better when Greg and I get a quick lunch together or when I stop by his office to say “hello” to his coworkers who constantly inquire about our child. When we get to see each other in the middle of the day we act as though it’s been months since we’ve last seen each other, fawning over each other like lovers who have been separated by war. It’s gross, but also kinda nice.

I’m still kind of in awe with the love I’ve stumbled on in him, to be honest. First, there was this pregnancy that had him doting on an ever-expanding, leaky girlfriend who couldn’t stand to be embraced lest she gagged and puked for a solid hour. Then, there was the exhausted blob of a woman that lolled around the apartment in a robe, constantly freaking out about her insecurity at being a new mother. Then, there was a to-be-bride freaking out about the prospect of marriage and whether or not she was suited for such an unnatural-seeming institution when she had so many hangups she enjoyed dredging up. And finally, there was a new bride who couldn’t peel herself out of bed for two seconds and even pretend to act happy for any discernable length of time because of a mental illness she may suffer from forever. And, through all that, he’s remained patient, caring, encouraging and loving. He’s never put me down, but hasn’t enabled any destruction I tend to resort to. He’s never abandoned me but won’t allow me to wallow and hide away from the world like I so enjoy doing at my lowest points. When I show the slightest inkling of a productive idea, he is my biggest, loudest cheerleader, no matter how absurd my interest du jour may seem. Ordinarily, I’d think that a man who was so eager to show patience and gentle nurturing was a desperate, whipped pushover, but I’ve seen him choose his battles with me and stick to his personal beliefs enough to know he has a spine. His humble, patient strength is something I’ve always needed, but was too proud to admit and too terrified to ask for before I met him. It was one of the things that drew me to him, and his love is what kept me with him when things quickly became difficult. It’s nice to be reminded why I still have so much faith in us.

And, God, I’m so glad I’m finally starting to feel functional enough to fully enjoy who he is and reciprocating that love more completely, as opposed to feeling oppressed in my guilt and shame for not measuring up to him as a perfect spouse/wonderful person. Despite all the loathing I feel with having to be on medications, if it allows me to show my husband the love he deserves, I’ll stay on these drugs forever.