Celebrating our fourth anniversary

To my husband: sorry you have to put up with me. But also, thank you. 

Happy 4 years baby <3 

Marriage Advice

I don't know about you, but 
I never expected marriage to be hard. 
Lots of people said it was, but
honestly, they should have made their advice meaner.
They should have said, 
marriage is raw like a scaled fish,
ready for filleting,
and this person, the one you're marrying,
this person you love more than anyone in the world,
will, very soon, very often be the person 
you struggle the most not to hate. 

No one says that on your wedding day.
Probably because
no one has yet had the guts to put it on a Hallmark card.
The crockpot your aunt in Minnesota sent
definitely did not include that kind of warning. 
So we say, marriage is hard, 
and make sure you eat a piece of your cake.

Marriage is hard, 
you'll soon find yourself repeating. A veteran. 
You've fought about something very silly,
like where he chooses to clip his toenails.
You get it now, why it's hard. 
It's hard, living with an imperfect person.
At some point though, you'll realize
you're no war hero.
Someone else sees you. You exist, to him,
in full, unadulterated reality. And
if marriage is a mirror,
you are far uglier than you ever thought.
You are the inconsiderate roommate
and the control freak,
the excuse-maker, the tally-keeper.
You are the hard in marriage.
It's a miracle you've made it this far.
You almost feel bad for him, that he's stuck with you.
But no one promised him it would be easy either,
so here you are.

And now I love you is less an experience, more an assignment.
To hold him when,
basically, he's promised by his mere existence
to hurt you. And further,
to save him from yourself--
to hate, to kill the ugly in you,
completely losing track of it
in the other. 

Fall weather

 

October makes me think about school. And school makes me think about trees and songs and coffee and walks with a boy I (secretly) loved and goodbyes I thought were inevitable. Thank God I was wrong.

October snow
It snowed that day,
the quiet kind of snow, the kind
that feels like dandelion fluff
floating on the wind.
Outside was white and gray
and red brick
and green grass tips
and October. I wore a black dress
and leggings, because of the snow
and a smile
because of the snow and the boy
who wanted to walk in it with me
even though he and the snow
don’t get along.
I said he’d learn to appreciate its beauty.
He said maybe.
It was cold, but we only felt it
against our clothes.
The snow smelled clean
and slowed the space around us
as our feet swept up dandelion fluff
on the sidewalk.
I said I didn’t feel
any strangeness between us.
We had been friends from before the beginning
of things.
He smiled. A dangerous thing,
that smile. Like a flame had been lit
behind his eyes.
It was beautiful and real
and sad,
like the snow on his eyelashes,
like the air on a late October day,
like his warm hands around mine
and finding excuses to stay
just a bit longer.
Time taunted us. We couldn’t
stay. Not forever.
So we created forever in that moment,
in all the unfilled spaces of our lives
in every glance reluctantly hidden.
Our words spelled love
in every way but one.

He was worth the cold and I
was worth the snow
and we were worth the pain
of letting go.

Moving on (again)

In a little over a month, my husband and I are moving. We bought a house (!) with two staircases, and a yard, and a porch, and a clawfoot tub (!!).

Yes, I’m really excited about the tub. As soon as I saw it, I knew this house was perfect for us–which may be a slight exaggeration, but in all reality it probably comprises at least 60% percent of the reason I’m so excited to move in.

Once we got inside, it took about ten minutes for us to decide we wanted to buy the house, with its original wood floors and french doors and attic suite bedroom. To some that probably seems a bit fast, especially since it was only the third house we’d seen in our search. But we’d been praying about finding a home for months–and if I know anything about prayer, it’s that it builds confidence. We were confident God had led us to this house.

And, as Zac and I have been saying for the last couple months of looking, almost anything would be a step up from our current situation.

For the past year we’ve been living in a tiny studio apartment. Tiny isn’t the bad part–in fact I think it’s been pretty cozy (although working from home here has started to feel a little like being trapped belowdecks in a fairly spacious pirate ship cabin).

There are no windows, just a sliding glass door through which the sunlight occasionally finds its way.

The kitchen has about two feet of counter space. The one time I’ve baked a non-batter bread in this apartment, I had to knead it on my kitchen table. There are no drawers in which to put silverware, like a sane person–instead, we’ve spend a year snatching our utensils out of a small and overworked caddie that I bought at Walmart four years ago. The sink is crammed between the counter and the wall, with barely space enough for one person and their elbows.

And, two of four burners on our ancient stove absolutely refuse to produce any heat.

My frustrations with the kitchen have been manageable, but it’s time to spread out. I want room to dance in my kitchen, because dancing is sometimes the only thing that makes the tedious task of baking bearable.

And I want burners that work!

I want my own walls to put nails in, and finally hang up the art that’s been collecting dust in my very accommodating mother’s office closet. I want a toilet seat lid that’s made of ceramic, not flimsy plastic. I want three–no, four–storage closets,and space for an extra bookshelf (or six). I want to be able to walk into my bathroom without worrying about stepping on cat litter.

More than anything, though, I am so ready to be free of this apartment and the strange, ever-changing smells it greets us with every day. Soon we will leave all the accumulated fumes of thirty neighbors behind, and simply live among stenches we have created ourselves–or can at least identify.

I will not miss this apartment, though I am grateful for the time I’ve shared here with people I love. This tiny, half-functioning kitchen is where I learned to cook brashly and without regard for consequences. This bathroom is where I watched my kitten grow up, by measuring her against the size of the sink. This table is where we’ve shared dinner and board games with lovely friends. This is the place where I packed a suitcase for our honeymoon. This is the home where our marriage began.

Thinking about moving on from this apartment reminds me of all the times I’ve moved on in the past five years. Some of those places I miss, like the suite-style dorm I shared with three friends my sophomore year. That suite had the best windows of any place I’ve lived, besides my parents’ house.

Other places I was happy to leave. I even wrote a joyful good-riddance ode to my freshman dorm, which happened to be in the basement (worst windows of all), for this very blog. It felt so good to leave and never want to come back to that bug-filled place. Like a much-needed haircut.

Neither I nor my husband have stayed in the same place for more than nine months during the last several years. But now we’re looking forward to being in a new place–one we can fit more than five people into, where we can put down some tentative roots, and hope to stay awhile, rather than looking for the next waystation.

Will our new home be quiet, devoid of humming machinery and strange thumping sounds, the source of which we’ve never been able to deduce? I may actually miss the air conditioner here and its lively buzz that comes to interrupt my thoughts. But then again, maybe not.

Our new home will not be perfect, but it will be ours, and that’s what makes this change so exciting. New challenges of home-ownership– like having two toilets to clean, and yard work, and wooden siding–await. It’s time to move on.

The Best Day Ever

There’s a lot of cynicism about weddings and marriage out there, and sometimes for good reason. People sometimes behave terribly. It only makes sense that in some cases, people would make marriage look like a terrible idea. Or like it takes all the fun and flavor out of life.

I haven’t been married all that long (8 months last Saturday, actually), and I’m sure there will be many days in the future that I mark as significantly good days. But the memory of my wedding day will always be one of the most purely happy and tranquil memories I have. I definitely have no scruples at this moment about saying it was the best day of my life.

Not only because I achieved a lifelong dream and married my favorite person, but because the entire day I was surrounded by my best friends, and I genuinely can’t remember a time I ever felt less stressed. Which, if you know me, is a pretty big deal.

Most of my wedding day was spent preparing for the actual wedding. We had an evening ceremony–7pm, to be exact, which was our coy way of refuting any responsibility for serving our guests dinner. Instead, there was a dessert bar, replete with every good kind of sweet (and some rice pudding, which I guess some people like).

The chocolate-covered strawberries, decorated in white sheaths and smart tuxedos, had been picked up the day before, the chocolate swan was awaiting its place of honor right next to the 3-tiered, lemon-curd-filled cake, everything had been baked and packed neatly into various cute little candy dishes.

All the decorations–the jars which would hold the floating candles for the centerpieces, the greenery, the tablecloths, the pew bows, bouquets and boutonnieres, were set aside far in advance, most having been hand-picked and arranged by my mother, sister, and me over the last 3 months. Mom’s dress from her wedding 26 years ago had been altered, the princess sleeves removed, the train trimmed, and was hanging, freshly steamed, on my bedroom door, ready to be worn once again.

Having the whole day before the ceremony meant that even with all the preparations, we could still take it easy. I woke up that morning at 7:30, after a surprisingly good night’s sleep, and spent some silent time praying. My friend Mimi and I met for tea and donuts at Lamar’s (the best), and from there she came to my house, where I set about steaming her light gray bridesmaid’s dress. Not something I would generally do for fun, but any moment spent with Mimi that weekend was a treasure, because I hadn’t seen her since we walked at graduation together, and she had plans to spend the next year studying abroad in England.

She had flown to Omaha from Mackinac Island, probably the second most beautiful place in the world, just to be in my wedding.

Early in the afternoon we headed to the church to get everything ready. All my bridesmaids were there to help. Taylor brought her bluetooth speaker for the necessary tunes, Sarah–in true Sarah fashion–arrived with arms and purse overflowing with every imaginable party snack, Emily (honorary interior decorator of my life) gladly took charge of any decoration that needed her attention. My sister Julia did most everything else (she, along with Mom, deserves much of the credit for making this wedding happen).

We had so much fun together, prepping and snacking and taking weird photos of each other. I’m so blessed to have shared my wedding day with those women, who make me feel supported and loved and witty and like I deserve to be happy. They are the friends that got me through the tough days, the long studying sessions, the endless bus rides, the event-less summers, the monotony of muggle life.

Julia, Emily, Taylor, Sarah, Mimi–you are the reason (besides my husband) that August 4th, 2019 was the best day ever. And I can’t wait to be there with each of you on your most special of days.

(Everyone except Emily, that is, because you found and married your true love years ago, you old lady. But here’s to the special day you’re anticipating now–I’m so happy for you.)

Cheers to you all, my lovelies. I love you