The little things

It seems like forever since I've been on this blog.  The profile says I'm 41.  I'm definitely not 41 anymore.  At one time, this blog was the key to my sanity....allowing me to be creative at a time when my brain felt terribly stagnant.  Whether 50 people read it or 3 didn't make much of a difference.  I just needed a way to sort out the shit floating in my head.  Then I started working more hours....and I got too busy....and that's okay.  My brain is stagnant no more.  But I came back today to reminisce.  Looking through my rough drafts, I found this one that I never published.  Seems appropriate to share today since yesterday was our 22nd anniversary and every word of this is still true.  I polished up the ending and decided to post it now.

* * * * * * * * * *

I don't remember exactly when my heart started growing.

Maybe it was in the hospital when I watched him hold his son for the first time.

Or maybe it was in the months before that when he made a million trips, without complaint, to Baskin Robbins to buy the ice cream that quelled my nausea.

Or maybe it was many years after that when he nervously changed his daughter's diaper for the first time while I laughed. "Oh my god. There's poop EVERYWHERE! I don't think I should be the one cleaning her."

* * * * * * *

Rachel has a cold. And pinkeye. The poor kid is an uncomfortable, oozing mess. She woke up this morning with a crusty nose and eyes. She wasn't crying...she calmly told me that she couldn't open her eyes.

I pulled out a washcloth and soaked it with warm water. She patiently waited while I tried my best to clean her eyes, but I was nervous about hurting her or accidentally poking her in the eye with the washcloth. I wasn't making much progress.

Daddy came into the bedroom.

He asked, "Do you want Daddy to clean your eyes?"

"Yeth." (Yes.)

"Okay, pretty girl. Come with me." He led her into the bathroom.

I heard water running. They talked a bit.

And then he said this: "There's my beautiful eyes!" And my heart swelled up a little more.

"Thank you, Daddy!"

She broke out of the bathroom. "Momma! I can thee (see)!"

* * * * * * * * *

I don't know when it started growing, but it continues nearly every day.

Like the time he beamed with pride as he told me how his boy scored 3 goals during the hockey game.

Or the time I saw tears streaming down his cheeks as he watched his other boy get stitches for the first time.

And the time he made some household repairs for my parents when my father was too ill to do it himself.

Growing. Growing. Growing.

* * * * * * * * * * *

We were so young when we got married. As in, 'it was just barely legal for me to have that glass of champagne" kind of young. We had no clue what marriage and parenthood would be like.

We knew we loved each other. We knew we really liked being together. And so, with a white dress and a black tuxedo and a whole boatload of hope, we vowed "for better or for worse."

Little did I know how small my heart was.

Or what it would take to make it grow.

Not with jewelry or a bouquet of flowers or a weekly date night or grand gestures, but with many years of little moments. And just when I don't think my heart can get any bigger, he strikes again.

Like the times he told me I was beautiful when I was exhausted and weary of my swollen, pregnant, stretch-mark ridden belly.

Or when we sort the kids' Halloween candy and he hands me the Kit Kats because he knows they're my favorite. (And in the springtime, when he buys me bunny-shaped Peeps because he knows they're also my favorite.)

It grows and grows some more.

* * * * * * * *

One Sunday morning, several years ago, we sat at the table reading the paper...the boys were quietly enjoying their cartoons and cups of cereal. He was reading an article that listed the top 10 professions that were most likely to show increased growth in the upcoming years. The kind of article that you would hand to your college-bound kids and say, "Here. Pick a job and get a degree in THAT."

One of the careers listed was "pharmacist."

He looked up from the paper and said to me, "You should go back to school and become a pharmacist."

Always the first one to question my own abilities, I raised my eyebrows and said, "Yeah. Right."

With a look of genuine surprise, he said, "Well.....why not? You're smart!"

And it grew some more.

* * * * * * * * *

At least once a year, some article surfaces in which the reporter interviews couples who have been together for several decades.

"What's the secret to a long, happy marriage?"

It's a laughable question, really.  What works for you may not work for me.  In hindsight, it may be as simple as keeping my eyes and ears open for the tiny moments that all added up to 22 years together.  I've never cried with joy or surprise over a dozen roses or diamond earrings.  But I've felt my heart swell countless times over small things no one else will understand.