Explosions. Thats the way it started. At least for me. Not out loud, of course. Just in my head. And then there was the sticky beginning. I wasn’t out of my mind, just happy. Perhaps for the first time ever. And it felt like there was no where else but here. I was drawn to this space with him like some kind of gravity was pulling me west.

I arrived in a yellow “Ryder” truck with two cats and pretty childish perspective. But somewhere between that studio apartment in the city and my house filled with dirty laundry (not like the gossip kind of dirty laundry - literally just dirty socks and towels and kids clothes that were worn either for 3 days or 3 hours) I think I grew up a little.

Sure, he might argue with that statement, given the third degree I give him about whether he loves me (I mean, really, really loves me) when I’m ovulating. But beyond that, things are refocused. Elevated. A sort of silent harmony.

I’m not sure when things changed for us. Perhaps it was the kids. If not the first, then maybe the second. The midnight feedings that he diligently got up with me for until it slowly drove us both mad.

Maybe the trip in the ambulance (no - not the one when I had a panic attack.) Our son got sick. 911 was called. A fireman arrived backlit in the dark looking like the scene from Back to the Future when Marty pretends to be an alien. In those moments, things change.

I remember watching his hands, holding the steering wheel, driving me to the airport after we first met.

Years later, those same hands holding my daughter. Then my son.

Today, they carry coffee to me every morning. They sometimes cook dinner. They carry the heavy stuff.

He is my rock. Solid. Grounded.

And I, in turn, am his crazy. Often thinking of the scary “what if.” Making inappropriate jokes. Creating art. And sometimes chaos.

And for us, 14 years later, it works. Still. And for that, I am thankful.