Husband and I recently celebrated thirteen years married. What did we do, you ask? We sat at home and cooked our own dinner and ate it while kids tried to talk all over each other and we didn’t say a word, just stared at each other with wide, overwhelmed eyes.
We started our married days honeymooning to Disney World. It was a magical place for a newly married couple, and many times that week people graciously let us cut to the front of the line, because they were so excited to see a happy couple like us out and about. There is no such thing as cutting in line anymore, because I am a parent, and kids do not like to wait. So who was served first at our homemade anniversary feast? That’s right. My children.
Husband and I used to have a date night twice a week. We’d go shopping, just to go shopping. We’d go see a movie if something looked good. We’d go house hunting, dreaming of the home we would one day buy. We’d sit in our room and play music together.
Now we have a date night twice a year, and one of those was not on our anniversary. Now we don’t go shopping unless we have no more food in our refrigerator and the kids are screaming that they’re starving. Now we try to sit in our room and play music together, and kids interrupt every song before it’s even started. I can’t even remember lyrics anymore.
This is marriage with children. It’s hard. It’s also really, really cool.
Every year, around our anniversary, Husband and I will retell our children the story of our engagement and wedding. Husband took me to the Nutcracker ballet. We were all decked out—me in a long red strapless dress I could probably only fit one thigh in now, him in a crisp black tuxedo. He took me up on stage after the show, where everybody could see us, which is actually the worst thing you could do to an introvert like me, but I didn’t care quite as much once he got down on one knee and popped the question. I could hear people in the audience saying “What did she say?” Husband must have raised his fist in a victory pump, because people started clapping and hooting. It was a great memory that brings a smile to our boys’ faces.
And then we’ll tell them about the wedding we had in an old historical church, me in a princess-cut dress, him in a crisp black tuxedo again. We’ll tell them about the path from the church to the reception area, and how deer came right up to us like I was living a real-life fairy tale. We’ll tell them about the dancing and the eating and the magnificent cake we shoved into each other’s faces.
And do you know what they hear? They hear love.
Do you know what we hear? We hear remember.
It’s true that marriage is hard. It’s true that it takes diligent work and extravagant dedication to fold two lives into one. It’s true that some days will be better than others.
Marriage with children is even harder. But children have brought a dynamic to our marriage that I can’t say with any certainty would have been there without them. We know each other better. We cling to each other more desperately, because we hold each other’s sanity in our hands. We chase our dreams and talk about the hard things of life and join together in the some of the most difficult and yet wonderful work there is: raising a new generation to know what marriage is really like. To know that marriage is worth all that hard work.
So even though we sent our children to bed on the night of our anniversary, with the full intention of doing what we always do—which is catching up on our favorite television shows—and the kids, thirty seconds after we’d pushed play, were back in our room for more hugs and kisses, I feel I can honestly say that these days are the best days so far.
Here’s what I’ve learned in thirteen years of marriage: the hardest places are the richest ground for love to grow and bloom.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this inside look at my life and family. Every Friday, I publish a short blog on something personal that includes a valuable takeaway. For more of my essays and memoir writings, visit Wing Chair Musings.
