My husband and I met, nearly thirteen years ago, on a completely random whim. A set of circumstances that we like to think were put in place by the ‘gods’ or universe or a very chubby cherub with too much time on their hands. Our first kiss was when his shy lips found my neck. One of the sweetest memories I have. Within hours, we said our first ‘I love you’. Whatever storm was going on, we were enjoying the ride without an umbrella.
Moving in together, step-children battles, first baby five years later, job gains, job losses, moved, moved again, and again, joined the mini-van club, first mortgage, lawn mower repairs, bills and more bills. Our cherubic-blessed union had become a battleground of stress and kids and burnt dinners and arguing and mistrust. It was split wide open and susceptible to even the slightest damage. We hit a ‘had-enough’ point and I moved out with our then four-year-old.
It was odd and strange and confusing. My condo, though trendy and cute, became a nest for grieving and mourning my seven year marriage. I was restless, unable to get on the other side of a rainbow. He was still in our home, partying and confused in his own way. It was clear, we weren’t over each other.
We had the occasional dinner out, determined to co-parent in our own clumsy-friendly way. The divorce papers were ready to be signed. Sitting there in a folder, silently screaming, ‘I’m a stack of nonsense. Do not sign me’. Still, we carried on thinking this was best decision for everyone.
Until that day, enroute to a playdate, I realized I was nauseous, several weeks late and had this uncanny ability to smell chocolate from a mile away. Oh shit. I grabbed a pregnancy test from the drugstore and used it in a bookstore bathroom. Exactly one impatient minute later, my future plans came to a shuddering halt. I called my soon-to-be-ex-husband and we both sort of stuttered in disbelief.
At that moment, our plans to disassemble our marriage had been challenged and eventually were dissolved. We realized a love like ours is tumultuous and creative and stormy. One not meant to falter under pressure, but rather to be refined with each thunderous moment. We reconciled after nine months of our time apart. Our ‘miracle’ daughter was born seven months later, her middle name aptly graced with Storm.
Every marriage, every relationship, has its hurdles. Some love isn’t meant to last, some is too explosive to survive the aftermath – but sometimes, it’s meant to become even stronger, even more wild, even more inspiring. i’d like to think ours was a love meant to survive. We’re both survivors from our rocky pasts individually; how could our love be any different? Things can still get shaky, days when I glance at my suitcase and wonder…..what if. Then, my Storm bursts into my room, reminding me of how our love was first born on a whim thirteen years ago, and then reborn through her very existence. And will continue to be reborn over and over again. This life, this love is a journey. Our daughters are just one of our magic superglues. They brought us back together and taught us to love again. Our daughters are more our teachers, then we are for them. For which we will forever be grateful.
I appreciate what the universe has blessed me with, the lessons life teaches us, the opportunities for growth – but I also like giving that chubby cherub plenty of work to do. We are some of his best customers.
I’m obsessed with this whole derailing of my need-to-be-perfect trip lately. And taking a huge step back from what I think my marriage was/is supposed to be, and rather accepting the beauty of what it just IS. Enormously … relieving. I like messes. Messy is sexy and wild. Messy pasts, messy hair, messy beds, messy love.
Go with the flow. Accept and embrace whatever stage your relationship is in, and trust that it will thrive, or sweetly takes it’s bow, or evolve – however it’s meant to, in it’s own messy, stormy time.