by The Wannabe Mom
He arrives right on time for our first date.
I peek out the window as he pulls into my drive. My breath catches in my chest. He walks to my door and rings the bell.
Butterflies. Sweet, fluttery butterflies.
I wear red lipstick, jeans and a black off-the-shoulder top. Very 2005.
After tonight, I won’t wear that top again. I’ll keep it buried in the back of my closet.
Someday I’ll give it to my daughter and I’ll tell her–this was the fabulous shirt I wore the night I fell in love with your dad.
She’ll roll her eyes and think I’m old.
. . .
He doesn’t answer his phone when I call to tell him I’m on my way home.
I walk into our bedroom after a Friday night out with the girls. The TV is on–and loud. He lies in our bed with his glasses still on his nose and the remote still in his hand. He’s fast asleep.
He’s handsome. So handsome. And he’s mine.
Our day was long. Our week was long. Our month was long.
I love my girlfriends, but tonight–all night—I wanted to be right here. In this bed. Next to him.
I take off his glasses. I slide the remote from his hand. I kick-off my shoes and climb in on his side.
He wraps his arms around my body pulling me close to his chest. He kisses my forehead.
I’m home. I’m safe. I’m his.
. . .
He sits at the kitchen counter–a card from Grandma in his hands.
Grandma’s known for finding a greeting card for every occasion. And she’s really done it this time. She’s sent us a Hallmark—for infertiles. It’s meant to encourage. It’s meant to remind us we’re loved—and supported by our family.
He’s read it and it’s all hit him—hard. He breaks.
He tells me what I’ve been wondering for two years–the process is killing him too. He doesn’t think it’s fair. We’re good people. We love each other. We would love our babies. We deserve a family.
He hates all the appointments. He hates all the drugs. He hates what the process does to me—to us.
In that moment, our roles reverse. I become the strong one. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold tight. We rock back and forth for a little while—and he cries like I’ve never seen him cry.
I wipe the tears from his cheeks and I tell him–it’s ok. It’s going to be ok. I’m fine–and he doesn’t need to worry.
We’ll have our babies. And—if we’re lucky—our babies will be more like him than me.
He smiles and nods–and tucks the card away in his suit-jacket pocket.
. . .
He is my hubby. My buddy. The he behind this she.
I love him. And yes–I know how lucky I am.