FIVE YEARS + COURAGE

 

2008 senior prom • freshmen in college • mission trip to peru • 2009 the day we said 'i do'

2011 our first year in new mexico • balloon fiesta • 2012 bringing our Evangeline home

though we've known each other over a decade and have taken pictures together over that time,

film makes it hard to share pictures from all of those years (even our wedding pictures haven't made it to the computer),

but we have them packed away in shoe boxes, tucked into the back of closets and they are cherished

We're celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary (eleven years together) with a little spontaneous weekend trip. While we're away, I thought I'd leave our story here for you all to read. It's been told here before, I'm sure, but I can't pinpoint the time or the holiday and I guess it will continue being told because it's our story after all, and much like this blog, it's always evolving. So if you're new here and you've never heard it before, welcome - have a cup of coffee in my honor, pretend we're clunking our chunky mugs together for good cheer (don't you just love chunky coffee mugs?) and enjoy - you'll probably be here awhile.

The first time I met him, I was eleven years old. When you're eleven years old you're not thinking a lot about meeting your future husband, so I didn't notice him much, but he says he noticed me. No matter how long I stayed somewhere, I always carried around the 'new kid' stigma - painfully shy and self-conscious, quiet and reserved, always with a book in hand. I walked into my new sixth grade classroom wearing a bright yellow Adidas backpack, pony tail bouncing, and was persuaded to introduce myself. I shared my name and probably not much else in a barely audible tone and sat down in the front row, center aisle. We went to a tiny little school made of rock on a back road of a small Southern town, so it isn't surprising that we came to share the same friends. I 'dated' Alex's best friend and I use 'date' because we were twelve and I was terrified to even hold his hand or have a conversation with him, much less go on a date. Alex was different though - different from any other boy, but also different because we were just friends like kids should be, so talking with him came easier.

When we were thirteen, that little school let us out for Summer break and shut down for good shortly after. We went our separate ways, off to where we would both spend our high school years, but not before exchanging addresses and agreeing to write. So we wrote each other letters all Summer long, him from his treehouse he and his brother built themselves in the woods behind his house, me by  flashlight under a blanket on the top bunk while at camp in Arizona. I have no idea what thirteen year olds even write about that is so urgent you break the lights out rule to get it down on paper, but I still have the letters tucked away in a box somewhere, so I guess we'll always have the chance to be reminded. That was one of the ways I knew he was the one in college - so many notes and movie tickets and concert bracelets hadn't been kept, but those notes had made it. I had to have hung onto them for a good reason is the way I saw it and that good reason was that I was meant to marry him.

SIMPLE THINGS + NOT SO SIMPLE THOUGHTS

I find myself unintentionally picking up my camera in more ordinary moments lately. It's probably my quiet revolt against a society that is trying to make everyone believe that they need to be somewhere beautiful, doing something epic, eating something delicious, having life-changing conversations with people that matter, while validating it all by sharing it 40 different places online. 'It doesn't count if no one sees me do it.' is what is ringing in our heads. We all think we're missing something if we aren't connected and the truth is that we are - we're missing real life as it passes by us, blurred glimpses seen from the edges of our screens are what people settle for. I often wonder if ten years from now children will be saying, "I wish I had been able to look up and see my mother's face more, rather than the lens of her camera/seeing her face turned down at her phone." I find myself standing in an ordinary moment, seeing extraordinary beauty so I dash out of the room to find my camera and I try to sneak back into the moment without anyone noticing that I left. Most of the time I'll get a few seconds of the genuine moment, then I'll see their eyes shift, noticing I'm there, followed shortly by a crooked smile and 'What are you doing?'

It makes things a bit quiet around here because honestly, I'm a little intimidated by the many people out there who have a skill for capturing real life in a much more beautiful way than I feel like I can. I enjoy capturing these moments, but I enjoy it for me and I'm honestly terrified of the thought of creating a business or obligation out of a hobby I've come to rely on for therapy. So I usually shy away from sharing some of the more personal pictures I take here because for a long while, in a world focused on sharing without savoring, I thought of it as cheapening. I know they're nothing special in terms of skill, but I cherish them. These moments are fleeting. They are the simple moments people miss after time has passed - your two year old discovering morning light, watching your husband shave, stuffed animals at the table.

I feel that so much of people's lives that are shared online are posed. This world demands perfection - look your best, act your best, share your best, be the best, and it's disheartening because I feel like I am the least put together woman out there for one, but I also wonder how that can be satisfying. That first statement is probably what explains the absence of pictures of myself here. It's something I realize is an issue inside of me that needs to be dealt with, my lack of taking care of myself at all for one, but also my reluctance to keep pictures of myself in which I'm not satisfied with my appearance. It's a curious thing too because I'm not necessarily self-conscious of what I look like nor do I care what other people think about me much. It's more about how I don't look the way I feel, a disconnect between the life I'm living in my head and what my appearance says about that. There are so many other things that are a bigger priority for me that I rarely think about how I'm dressed or when I ate or exercising at all, until I look at a picture of myself and it's all completely apparent to me, my lack of loving myself.

There have been a plethora of articles out there lately about 'over parenting' and being 'too busy.' My thoughts: you wouldn't have to over parent and busy yourself into exhaustion if you had someone else, a village, but we don't. We're all trying to find our solace in the internet through false connections - likes and comments and glimpses into the good parts of another woman's life that feel like relationship-building, but it's not. You may be making friends on the internet, but you still sit in your house alone every day and the saddest part is there are women around you doing the same thing, but no one wants to make the effort to build that village. If they do, we spend our hours together checking our phones. One up side I've found to all of this is that I hold onto the relationships that I am able to build more intentionally, but when you move away from each other it isn't quite the same. You still long for a community. You still feel lonely trying to do it all yourself.

Simple things Sunday is about slowing down and capturing life’s everyday details. Taking joy in the simple things is the focus and Sunday is the day we gather together to reflect on our experiences from the week and share our photos with each other.

Ten on Ten • May

I stumbled upon the ten on ten project a few months ago and the idea really resonated with me, but we were staying in D.C. and at that point in our lives every little thing was heavy and hard to manage. I read the words 'finding life and beauty in the ordinary things of our day to day' and thought yes, that's something I can get behind and participate in. There is so much noise on the internet these days and the world is so linked through blogs and news and Pinterest and Twitter (and whatever social media app I'm trying to ignore because when will it end?). I would love to be apart of spreading snippets of beauty into people's lives and bringing them joy. That's really what I want this space to be about everyday. That's really what I want my life to be about everyday. Technically this is ten on eleven, but I knew that I would want to document Mother's Day and I've been trying to live out our days a bit slower with less technology involved, so I didn't want to be behind the camera all day two days in a row.

It's been a little over a month since we moved here and I've just now begun to have the energy to attempt to get into a rhythm again. One of the funniest things about moving to a new place for me is that even if you worked hard to get there and you want to be there, it never 100% feels like home from the start. This is the closest I've ever been to feeling 100% at home right away, but it has still taken some effort and adjustments and we're still working on making this place feel like ours. Most days we still feel tourists just fumbling around the city. I'm convinced that there are certain days and moments and places that all add up to make a place home. It's like a cosmic jar of fireflies, but coffee shops and laughs and wanders through the park replace the fireflies and they all come together in layers to paint a picture that makes you say 'this is home to me and I never want to leave it.' I've been craving a day like that, a moment like that since we got here as a reassurance I guess. I'm not sure. I know we're supposed to be here. I spent the last five or more years of my life homesick for this place, a place I was never able to call home until now. I used to come and see those city moms with their city kids and I'd carry a longing home with me to someday raise a baby here, but I was sure it would never come to be. So I know it's home. I just need to collect a few more fireflies for that jar of mine.

We got a good start on that this weekend. Alex wandered down to the corner bodega (It's really just a grocery store, but I can't help but love that people call them bodegas here.) the night before and surprised me with a bouquet of flowers. He'd been gone for four days and if you know us, you know we don't fare well apart so when I questioned him about the flowers he responded 'I had to come home with flowers. It felt like I was coming home from a deployment!.' I opened the door as Ev rounded the corner at a marathon pace squealing with uncontainable joy. Papa was on one knee to scoop his girl up and she spotted those flowers and pulled them right out of his arms - 'FWOWAHS! Oh, dank you, Papa! Dank you.' and she sniffed and sniffed them. For as long as I've known him, I've told him not to buy me flowers. There's something morbid about watching something so beautiful die a quicker death than if you just left them in the ground where they belong. I'm warming up to the idea as the years pass though. Among many other reasons, that's how I knew he was a keeper - I told him not to buy me flowers and he did anyway because what kind of woman doesn't like fresh flowers? He always manages to pick the ones that really do look like me.

So I woke up to these flowers on Sunday morning and smiled. I appreciated them the only way I know how - with a camera in my hand and the morning light streaming through the windows. We cooked a banana pancake breakfast, packed a picnic, and caught the train up to Park Slope for church. Ev was proud to present a Peony to me after church and this may sound ridiculous, but it was absolutely the most perfect flower I've ever held in my hands. I never knew it, but it seems Peonies are my favorite flower. We walked a few blocks to Prospect Park and staked our claim on a patch of shade with adequate grass. Picnic spot picking is always a big production for this family. The weather was flawless. We finished our picnic and put Ev down for a nap. We sat in the grass next to her and we both exhaled for the first time in weeks. We talked like we haven't talked in months and sat in silence like we haven't sat in silence in months with the sounds of a guitar playing nearby. Ev woke up and we all wandered and took pictures and wandered some more until our feet were blistered and our legs were aching. It was a heart filling, soul nourishing kind of day.

P.S. They've reset the votes over on Top Baby Blogs. It would be really lovely if you all would send

in a vote for HMRM. Being listed on the front page over there has brought a lot of growth to this

little space and I'm excited about the things to come - I'd love for you all to be a part of it.

Four Years

Each year, this letter gets even harder to write - not because we have run out of things to talk about, not because I feel any different than the day I stood in front of you, 19 years old, starry-eyed, and shaking and said 'I do,' not because our love has lessened over this time. I fumble over the keys of the laptop, unsure of what to say because, well, how do I describe the way our love has morphed and stood the test of time? It's impossible. What do I say that I haven't said already? Every time I sit down to write this letter, I feel completely inadequate. Any other day of the year I can approach writing with all the confidence in the world, but today - I am speechless. People often tell us we're lucky to have found each other. In one way, I agree with them - there seems to be an otherworldly force that has brought the two of us together, so complementary. At the same time, I want to say, "No, we don't have luck. We have hard work, determination, compassion, understanding, hope in something other than each other. Not to mention we actually really like each other, like a lot." We have a lot of things, but luck - luck just sounds like the easy way out.

We've known each other for over 10 years now and in those 10 years we have been through the valleys and stood on top of the mountains (I feel grateful to say there have been more mountains than valleys.), we've grown together through middle school, high school, and college (which is really miraculous in itself considering the fact that sometimes I think back to those former selves of mine and cringe). We've moved from our childhood homes to Birmingham, where we survived solely off love and Hamburger Helper. There was a couch that took up our entire living room and what room was left was always scattered with sketch pads and pencils. Our pantry was a wire shelf practically in the middle of said living room - it's a wonder how we even got to the bedroom from the front door. After Birmingham, came four months of Wichita Falls - practically a blink in our lives in a rather forgettable place on the map, but it will always be remembered in our family. We stood in the echoey living room of that apartment, camera propped on the back of the couch, recording the moment that our life as we had known it ended and began new all in the same day. I'll never forget driving the entire east coast with you in the worst snow storm we had both ever seen, nor will I forget the day that I drove 14 hours through Texas (or at least if felt like it was all Texas) to pull up and collapse into you, relieved to finally be reunited. It was the first time I had ever driven that far by myself and secretly, I was terrified - I wouldn't have done it for anyone but you. After Wichita Falls, we came here, to a place neither of us knew nothing about other than it instantly felt like home. A few days shy of six months later, we became a family of three sitting in a birthing pool in a dimly lit room of what I'm still convinced is the most magical place to give birth in the world on 4th Street. Yet again, I had no idea what I was doing and I was terrified, but you were there. You always have been. We stumbled through the first blurry months of parenthood (some days are still kind of blurry) and somehow we made it out of them, together, stronger, still mostly sane but perpetually sleep-deprived.

And now, here we are, about to board a plane at midnight tomorrow to the place I secretly call my first love, New York City. Our first anniversary was spent in Savannah, Georgia and it was one of the happiest, but weirdest vacations of my life. People had told us that the first year would be hard, the hardest, but to stick it out. I was prepared for the worst and then we met this deadline with ease and grace and I was looking back thinking, "When does it get as hard as everyone says?" I didn't want it to get hard. All I had ever seen was hard and I knew I wouldn't settle for that. In our house, and yours too I've learned, vacations were usually full of stress and bickering and an air of 'you better have fun or else' around them, but with you it was effortless. We scrimped and saved to stay at a historic bed and breakfast. You stayed up all night searching for the beloved claw foot bathtub. We felt completely out of place, like kids in a world with a 'grown-ups only' sign on the door, but were completely mesmerized by it all. We took pictures of the cookies left on our pillow and sat in a bubble bath together until 2 in the morning, giddy at the thought of a future together. We walked through the city, hand in hand, content to just wander. We stood on Tybee Beach and watched dolphins peek out from the waves. I ran and pointed and shouted, resembling a child (or possibly a loon), and you laughed your rare laugh - the kind that radiates from your whole body.

Our second anniversary was spent in Dallas. We took a day trip to the Dallas World Aquarium and decided to be irresponsible and have dinner at The Melting Pot - then we decided to be really irresponsible and get a room at a nice hotel for the night. We wandered around Wal-mart at 10 o'clock at night in search of the necessities and bathing suits because we had brought nothing with us, not even clothes for the next day. We twirled around in the rooftop pool, basking in our freedom together. I will always remember seeing a couple with a young baby and feeling that switch flip inside me. I couldn't stop smiling looking at the three of them. We wandered through the hotel gardens and lingered, leaning against the cement wall that still held warmth from the day and enjoying the view of the Dallas lights. It seems that all of our best decisions come spur of the moment. We celebrated a few weeks early, justifying it because we weren't sure where we would be when our anniversary came around. Wichita Falls was holding us hostage and we had no orders in sight. Little did we know, we would be in Albuquerque standing in front of what I will always consider our first house on the day of our actual second anniversary. We cooked a nice dinner at home and took pictures in front of our new house - this has become my favorite tradition of ours, besides Valentine's Day.

Our third anniversary was spent at the top of Sandia Peak. It was the first time I had been away from Ev for more than a few hours. We went to dinner and took a motorcycle ride up the winding, wildflower lined road on the side of the mountain. I felt like a kid again. We stopped and hiked a little ways. We found our spot on the side of a hill, far enough off the beaten path, but not so far that we couldn't find our way back in the dark. You unpacked the bag, which was mostly full of s'more fixings. I smiled a big smile, basking in the joy of what it felt like to really be known and understood by someone. It was a simple celebration - in the eyes of others it was probably too simple for their tastes, but it was perfect for us. Our 4th anniversary will be spent wandering the city of my soul talking about our dreams and how to make them a reality. It feels so good to be married to someone that says, "This is your dream? Well then it's our dream - let's make it happen." I will never forget overhearing you tell someone that New York City was my dream, and well, I was your dream. I love the way you expand my thoughts, opinions, and aspirations. I love that we can say to each other, "That's not really a dream of mine, but I would love to experience it with you."

The every day has been hard lately, really hard, and in turn I've spent a lot of my time worrying, but I never worry about us. You and I are like the waves of the ocean - we may toss and turn and crash at times, but at the end of the day, the ocean is still the ocean and you and I are still meant to be. I know I say this every year, but it is such a privilege to raise Ev and grow old with you. It seems impossible that it has already been a year since I wrote one of these. It seems even more impossible that at about the same time that we step off the plane into the city tomorrow, four years ago we were stepping off the plane in Orlando for our honeymoon. I can't wait to see what we manage to accomplish in the next 12 months. Let's make them count.

Four years and counting - here's to 70 more.

I love you way way more than you know.
Andrea

3 years and counting

(I'm a bit late posting this, as our anniversary was back in August, but writing letters to each other is a bit of a tradition with us. These letters are a part of our story, even a part of Evie's story, so I share them here.)

To my husband, on our third wedding anniversary:

This morning began with a slightly grumpy, but mostly groggy, muffled by the pillows "happy anniversary" exchange between the two of us. You rolled into bed as I rolled out and made my way down the hallway with a baby in one arm and pillow under the other, hoping to let our heathen child play in the living room floor as I got a few more minutes of sleep. . . that didn't happen. (Does it ever?)

I was surprised to find a bouquet of flowers and a note on the side table in the living room. I guess that's the one good thing about being in the busy, exhausted, not a lot of time for each other state that we've been in lately - I completely forgot that boys usually buy girls flowers on these kinds of days. I went back into the bedroom and tried to sneak into bed next to you to thank you, but you just grunted and rolled over with the covers pulled over your head. I snuck out of the bedroom, kicking myself for waking you up so many times this morning. This is your day as much as it is mine. I had intended on getting up early to have breakfast ready when you got home from work, but had a horrible night of sleep. . . so that didn't happen. (Once again, when does it ever?)

I'm writing all of this out because I know someday, in just a few short years, we'll read through this letter with smiles on our faces and get all nostalgic about the point of our lives that we're in right now. Regardless of all of the sleepless nights and hectic days we've been having lately, we have a beautiful life together. On our first anniversary I wrote you a letter and talked about the fact that you brought me peace when I married you, and the same still rings true. I can be on the verge of tears, flustered, panicking, convinced this bad day will never end and you'll wander down the hallway, kiss me with your sleepy breath, and all the stresses of the day go away. I can breathe. I can smile. My patience returns. You're like a breath of fresh air.

I feel so much gratitude when I think about the different paths I could have taken, the different lives that I could have had, but I chose you and I've never regretted that. All my life I never imagined I would find someone that gives me as much joy as you do, someone who is as perfectly suited to be my partner as you are. You are my axis. You keep my grounded and moving at the same time. I've never met someone as inherently good as you are. You are kind in a way that seems effortless, and loving in ways that make me want for little. You are adventurous and fearless in ways that I can only hope to be. I plan and talk of adventures, but you are the feet to my words. You push me to say, "Sure let's sell the truck and buy a Volkswagon bus to adventure in," or "Of course I'm up for gypsying our way through New Mexico for a week or two," or "Let's hike seven miles with a baby and camp in the mountains for a few days." You help me fight out my soul battles, so that I can approach this life with courage and ease. Your love, this marriage is like nothing I've seen. We seem to have been designed for each other. While most women feel trapped in their marriage, I am lifted up by you. It is a beautiful thing to love and be free at the same time. We are the exception, the love that most people spend their lives searching for and some never find. Im so glad we found each other.

It's hard to believe that it has already been a year since we stood in front of our first little home on base, you wearing your blues, me sporting the beginnings of a baby bump, and Evie just a bundle of cells. You and I have grown so much since then. This has probably been one of the most stressful years we'll ever have together, but also one of the most memorable. I'm glad we let it all bring us closer together as we worked as a team instead of letting it overwhelm us and pull us apart. However, let's make a deal that this next year will be quite a bit less eventful - no more house buying or baby having, mmk? I look forward to spending this year and many more with you. You and Evie are the best parts of my life, my favorites. If I die having only loved you and mothered her, I will die a happy woman. Growing old with you is one of the greatest privileges I've been given.

Three years and counting - Let's make it 70+ more!

All the Love in the Universe,
Andrea Lane Jacobs

Reminiscing

Alex and I are celebrating our three year anniversary today, so I decided to share a letter that I don't think I've ever posted here before. It was written on our first anniversary, which we spent in Savannah, Georgia. I still get warm feelings when I think about this vacation. I don't have many pictures of it, but that seems to make the ones that I do have that much more special. It was one of those trips where we were just too absorbed in each other to bother with the camera.

August 22, 2009.

To my husband, on our very first anniversary.

This year just hasn’t seemed real at times. Sometimes I’ll wake up in the dead of the night, and quietly slide my hand into yours under the warmth of the covers and just marvel at the fact that you are mine and I am yours. When we were engaged, I heard the same thing from everyone who tried to give me advice, “The first year will be the hardest.” Because of this, I was skeptical the first few months - I kept waiting and thinking, “When is this going to get hard?” I honestly kept thinking to myself that this was too good to be true, and I was almost waiting on something terrible to happen that would damage our relationship or take you away from me forever. But it didn’t. We faced our fears and trials together, and with courage. Neither of us tried to take back what we vowed on that day, one year ago now. We both just grabbed the others hand, looked in the others’ eyes and said “Let’s go.” I hope that never changes. I hope our relationship doesn’t callus with time like some do - that fifty years from now we’ll still be a team, working together to navigate across the country

, cooking dinner together, and helping each other up the stairs. You bring me peace, and that is one of the things I have gained since marrying you that I didn’t expect to. When I see you walk through the door at the end of the day, I can breathe, I can smile, all the stresses of the day go away. You’re a good man and I’m proud to have you as my husband. No matter how hard it gets in the future, I’ll be here. Our life is really going to change in the next year, but I have no doubts that we can not only handle it, but embrace it together. I can’t wait to watch you change and adapt as we walk through this journey together, but I pray that you still remain as gentle and understanding as you are now. No matter where you’re sent or how long you’re gone, I’ll be here waiting to be your helper again.

One year and going strong… let’s keep it up, honey.

Simple Moments • 05 • Fire in His Eyes

02.07.2012

Every morning we open our eyes and you're laying between us - a perfect product of our love. After you're morning feeding, we usually linger in bed, soaking up your soft skin and baby smell. This morning I sat on the edge of the bed watching your Papa rock you, talking with him about just how hard this is, but how amazing and worth it you are. For years I thought I knew what love looked like in his eyes, but there's a new fire that lights when he holds you close. He loves you - so, so much. I'll never be able to express how very true those words are and how much I want you to believe them. You need him, and he needs you, and I need you both.

Guitar Moods

Your Papa has wanted to learn to play the guitar for as long as I can remember. In my eyes, he can already play, but I often find that I have more confidence in him than he has in himself. I truly think he can do anything. Every few months he'll pick up his guitar and start to remind his fingers of the ways in which he needs them to move. He'll develop calluses on the tips of his fingers, and each time I notice them, I'll run my fingers over them, thinking about the dreams, the songs, the effort that's been put in to create these. Whenever his guitar moods strike, I float a bit more than usual. I know these sounds will be the background music to the memories being made in our home. When I reminisce about my pregnancy, I'll take myself back to the warmth and calm I felt as I would emerge, fresh from a bath and hear your Papa's music floating up the stairs and through our house.

I've asked him to learn several songs for you in the last few months. Each time he says yes, and I have no doubts that he'll come through. I can already see the magic in your little girl eyes as you listen to these come from his fingers and lips. I can't wait to hear the sound of his deep, smooth voice coming down the hallway as you drift off to sleep. These are the moments that I hope you'll hold onto. These are things that I hope will keep you young. It seems like there has only been a handful of years between the time I was a little girl and now. People will tell you over and over that life moves fast, cherish your childhood and enjoy your youth. It's the truth. It seems like my childhood escaped in a breath, and here I am with a husband, a home, and a life in my belly. These are all wonderful things to wake up to, but there is an innocence and carefree nature of childhood that can never be relived or replaced. I hope you'll let me help you live this life as slowly as possible. Resist the urge to rush things along. Some of the most content moments you have may be spent curled up in a ball at your Papa's feet, listening to songs meant especially for you.

He's a wonderful man and I can't wait to share him with you. I hope you adore him as much I do.

All the Love in the Universe,
Mama

(What I didn't know as I wrote this was that I would wake up the next morning in labor with you and you would get to meet this wonderful man the very next day.)

Handwritten

A few weeks ago, your Papa and I were in the living room together - he was sitting at the dining room table, working on his study material for training at work and I was sitting in the floor with fabric spread all around me, working on the hangers for your closet. He tore these out of his pocket notebook that he carries with him everyday and told me he had written something about you, about us. Every time he writes something, I can tell that he's always nervous about sharing it with me. As he handed it to me he said, "It's kind of strange and sounds old school." While our styles are very different from the other's, I always love reading what your Papa writes. We both love to string words together to create something beautiful - we both love to create, period, but in vastly different ways. I love seeing that creative side of him. There's something about reading someone's words or running your hands over something they've drawn or built that lets you see them in a completely different light than just having a conversation with them. This is why I hold onto all these bits of paper with notes and letters written about you on them. I want you to be able to hold them in your hands one day, to feel the different sizes and textures of paper that represent different stages in our lives, to see the words marked out, to notice the creases, wrinkles, and misspellings. Looking at a picture of a letter or reading the typed words on a computer screen isn't quite the same. Many people are turning to technology to write letters or save their children's artwork. Handwritten letters are becoming a lost art, and just as I want these notes to be more tangible to you, I want you to be able to look through old art projects and smell the scent of crayons, touch the different textures, and reminisce on a time when you couldn't color in the lines. Throughout your Papa and I's relationship, we've written uncountable letters to each other, which I've saved. They're sitting a box in our closet rubber-banded together. There are slightly immature ones that make my cheeks turn pink from high school, love letters from college, and one from almost every day that we were apart while he was in Basic Training. I look forward to the day that you and I are going to spend reading through these together. Handwritten letters have been a part of our lives since the beginning and I hope you find as much value in them one day as I do.

All the Love in the Universe,
Mama

"What's in store for tomorrow? I have no way of knowing. All a man can do is love his woman, holding nothing back, try to make the best of what he's got, work harder than anyone else, look forward to another beautiful tomorrow full of adventure, and hit it all head on with all the fierceness of his soul."

- M.A. Jacobs

A Letter from Papa

I read this for the first time in July, and even though I've read it twenty times since then, I still get teary-eyed every time my eyes meet these words. I can't believe I created a life, a little soul, with such an amazing man. They may not be professional grade writing material, but these are the most beautiful words I've ever read. They outshine every classic novel, poem, or life changing article. People always talk about the worries that they have about being a parent, especially after they become pregnant (ironic, right?). I keep waiting for these thoughts to creep in and to wake up one morning yelling, "What were we thinking?! How are we going to raise a child?," but they don't. I'm completely at peace about raising a child, and part of that comes from knowing that even if I completely fail at being a mother, this kid is still going to have one amazing father.

Happy Father's Day, love.

You've always talked about starting a pocket knife collection for our son(s).
There couldn't have been a better day to give you the first one.

Dear Alex,

Every day I find my eyes fixed on you, absorbing every inch of you, your handsome permanent five o'clock shadow, your stocky build that I love (and that you've come to accept will never fit into a pair of Wranglers like you'd like), every crease, every freckle, every mark on your skin, but my favorite, what I can get lost in, are those eyes. I've watched almost every important event unfold in those eyes, nervous excitement as we said our first 'I love you,' tears of joy as we said 'I do,' and now an unfathomable love as we find out we're going to be parents. Often times, I find myself wanting to lock onto you until I'm sure I have every piece of you memorized, for fear that I might wake up tomorrow and you'll be gone.

I love the way we fit together. I love the way we're so natural and comfortable wherever we are, in the car on a road trip, in the kitchen cooking dinner, in the bedroom folding laundry. I love all the promises of the future, the hope of our own home with our own kitchen soon and all the meals we'll make and enjoy together there, all the laughs, dances, and kisses that will take place before dinner. I love the way we move together. The way I step into you and you move in response to me. It's hard to explain, other than to say that we're completely in sync.

At the same time, I love that we can be unrehearsed. Every thing we do is one of two extremes, either completely planned down to every detail or completely sporadic. It's just. . . us. It's a camping trip, barely talked about, just thought up and carried out. It's a slushy from the gas station when you ran in just to use the ATM. It's a hike with no map or plan on where we're going. It's naps on the weekends while the laundry is drying. It's all the little things that make us, us. It's hard to explain, but I know you get it, love.

I say all this to make the point that while everything may not stay exactly the same when we add another person to this mixture, we'll still be us. We'll all be in sync, so much so that we'll wonder how we ever got along without this other little person tagging along. We'll be a camping trip with a little more to pack in the car, two slushies from the gas station, a hike with a napping baby in a carrier on your back, and a Valentine's Day diner trip each year. Things will change more than either of us can imagine, but eventually those changes will become what makes us, us.

I know it's the most common and cliche thing to say you're in love with your best friend, but I am. We're partners. You're my companion forever. We share everything. People say you shouldn't get too comfortable in your relationship because you'll lose that spark, but there's something to be said about comfort, about growing old with somebody, about knowing someone better than you know yourself. As long as we're both alive, I know I'll never have to be alone, and that's something. I love you more than you'll ever know, Alex. I can't wait to watch you become a father.


All the Love in the Universe.

Baby Update: Our first appointment is scheduled for June 28th - only a week away! We'll get to see the heart beat and find out how far along I am.

My husband is hilarious, my acne is out of control, and Aunt Flow is late.

"I feel good with my husband. I like his warmth and his bigness and his being there and his making and his jokes and stories and what he reads and how he likes fishing and walks and pigs and foxes and little animals and is honest and not vain or fame-crazy and how he shows his gladness for what I cook him and joy when I make him something, a poem or a cake, and how he's troubled when I am unhappy and wants to do anything so I can fight out my soul-battles and grow up with courage and a philosophical ease. I love his good smell and his body that fits with mine as if they were made in the same body shop to do just that. What is only pieces, doled out here and there to this boy and that boy, that made me like pieces of them, is all jammed together in my husband. So I don't want to look around anymore. I don't need to look around for anything."

- The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

I really think this man is going to be the best father in history, and I'm not just saying that because I married him and am rather fond of him. I'm saying it because before we were even married, he dreamed about being a father. He would talk and still talks about things he wants to do with our children, places he wants to take them, and how he wants to raise them to have integrity and passion. He thinks of weird baby names and asks for my opinion. His face lights up when he spots a cute baby in public, and he loves to carry on awkward conversations with little kids.

Every night before he heads back to base (he's in training right now, so he has to sleep in the dorms), he looks at me like I'm the most amazing creature to ever walk the Earth. He's taken to calling me 'Mama,' while kissing my belly and saying goodnight to 'whoever might be in there.' He even shushed me the other night when I interrupted his declaration of love to inform him that he was going to be late if he didn't wrap it up. I'm already losing the popularity contest with my belly and we're not even sure whether I'm pregnant or not. Alex swears that I am. With every little thing I do, he's started blurting out, 'YOU'RE PREGNANT!'

"I'm tired," I say. "You're pregnant!," he shouts.

"This Apple is sour. Here, you eat it," I said. "It is not. . . something's wrong with you. You must be pregnant," he said.

"I think I've gained a little weight. My boobs seem a little bigger," I said. "You must be pregnant!," he shouted.

"It's hot in here," I yell, as I'm flinging my clothes off. "It is not. You're just pregnant," he informs me.

I started cleaning the apartment yesterday and he asked me, "Are you nesting? You have to be pregnant." I laughed and informed him that women don't usually start 'nesting' until the third trimester.

I seriously doubt any of these things actually mean that I'm pregnant, but it will be funny if he ends up being right. The only thing that's giving me a twinge of excitement and hope is that I've broken out everywhere, like the worst breakout I've ever had including my teenage years, and I have no explanation. My diet hasn't changed, it was happening long before I changed my skin care bar, and it's constant and not going away. If I'm not pregnant, then I need to make an appointment with a dermatologist because this is getting ridiculous.

This baby will be the greatest gift I'll ever have the pleasure of giving him. It's an astonishing and humbling realization that I get to be the one that brings his child into the world. He has to rely on me to nourish, carry, and birth his children - the responsibility rests solely on my shoulders, and I embrace that, no matter how scary it may seem.

I'm due to have my period today, but so far Aunt Flow is a no show. My cycles aren't super consistent, so I could just be a few days late, but I'm crossing my legs, fingers, and toes, and holding my breath that she's on a nine month vacation. We'll see. . .