I can tell that you’re starting to doubt us.
We’re past two years and exhausted parents and comfortable in the routine we’ve created for ourselves. We make schedules and write grocery lists and rarely deviate from either.
We use words like “bed time” and “bath time” and “nap time” and we’re relatively successful at all of the above.
We save money when we can and pay off loans and contribute to a savings and it’s all so meticulous and calculated.
We bought a car and we worry about the future and we plan, even if we don’t see the fruition of our intentions.
We sit in silence some evenings and we tend to gravitate to the opposite sides of the bed and our kisses can seem thoughtless and periodic.
We don’t touch one another as often as we used to. Not in the way that made your toes curl and my lungs tighten. Not in the way that left me flustered and you enlivened.
And I can tell you’re starting to worry.
You’re afraid I’ll grow tired of you and the life we’ve methodically built. You’re afraid you’ll be like that new song or new restaurant; consumed rapidly and passionately but eventually replaced for something different.
You know I crave different.
You’re worried you’ll be like the others. The ones I burned so rapidly for in the beginning, consuming them with fervor and affection and a rapture that would only leave me tired and bored. I’d grow restless and impatient and in need of something more. Something they couldn’t give me.
Something I saw in you.
You’re concerned that I want my old life, with bars instead of babies and promiscuity instead of partnership. You’re unsure of your allure, wondering if I want the exciting company of strangers instead of the comfort I’ve grown to know in yours.
But I promise, you’re enough.
You’ve seen me through the worst, holding my hand through painful procedures and helping me bring our child into the world. You assured me it wasn’t my fault when one of our babies died in my belly, promising me I wasn’t as defective or unfit or broken as I believed myself to be. You told me my body was beautiful instead of busted. You swore I was to be supported instead of blamed.
When I look at you, I see the pain we’ve experienced and I know we’re strong enough to endure.
You touch me even when you’re not around. You leave behind thoughtful notes that whisper in my ear through even the toughest of days, reminding me you’re thinking of home. You leave imprints of our strength on the ridges of my spine, helping me stand tall through the unexpected and confident through the dangerously unsure. I know that I have you to fall into. I know that I have you to hold.
When I think of you, I see that I’m never alone and I know that we’re committed enough to sustain.
You surprise me every single day. I learn about your insecurities and your bottom lines and the intricate thoughts you reserve for silent drives. I peel back another layer of your guarded shell, with the greatest of care, knowing the latest coat is as fragile as it is telling.
Every day you’re new, like the skin under sunburnt shoulders.
Even now, after a baby and a loss and countless trips and a handful of fights and the mundane moments in between, I’m meeting you for the first time. I’m just as enamored with you as the day we met and my heart beats for our future.
When I learn about you, I know that you’re my map to nowhere. You’re the journey that makes every destination meaningless, and I know we’re adventurous enough to continue.
When I’m around you, I feel home. Your silent confidence and attention to detail and immeasurable warmth give me what I thought I never wanted. You’re my safety even when the skies are clear and shining and cloudless. You’re every “Honey, I’m home” and “I’ve missed you, dear” that I didn’t believe in.
You’re the house I wished I lived in as a child. You’re the place I’m proud to raise a family in.
When I’m near you, I know our foundation is strong and that we’re stable enough to maintain.
So, my dearest love, if your faith falls weary and your mind uneasy, and you’re starting to doubt us or worry, remember all of this. Remember the pain and the pleasure, the new and the old and the wonderfully unknown that you’ve created with me and that I find in you.
But most of all, remember my promise.
You’ll always be enough.
Author: Danielle Campoamor
Apprentice Editor: Jenny Wise; Editor: Caroline Beaton
Photo: True Romance, Guian Bolisay (Flickr)