J and I have been together since we were 17, so young that we still bought our shoes a size up because we were still growing. He was my first kiss, my prom date.
(This post is just pretty much pure self indulgence, I might as well tell you now.)
Pregnancy is a long, hard season for our marriage that concretely builds our reliance and faith in each other, but doesn’t allow for a lot of fun adventures — although this time around, we’ve been having the occasional “date,” when he wakes me up at 9 or 10 so we can watch a little TV in bed and I can snack before I go back to sleep and he continues with his Functional Human tasks. Party on.
This is the sort of love note we exchange in pregnancy:
For our first anniversary, we took a spontaneous overnight trip to New Orleans and ate rabbit at the fanciest restaurant we could afford. We drank very cheap, very bad champagne in our room, and the next morning we ate beignets and drove through torrential Southern rain on our way back to Tallahassee.
For this, our ninth anniversary, we probably won’t go out because my queasiness gets worse around 4 and I usually go to bed by 7, but my in-laws said they’d babysit for us so we could go out when they’re in town in a couple of weeks, when maybe my body will have finally conceded that it’s second trimester and straightened up.
Pregnancy is a dull time in our marriage, but a time when I see how much we’ve grown since the gawky high school days. That growing up isn’t always fun, but I’m so proud and in love with the bearded papa-man I find myself married to these days, grey at the temples, compassion for wimpy old pregnant me in his every gesture.