ONCE UPON A MARRIAGE

This feels deeply personal, and a little strange to post. But I’ve enjoyed reading and learning from the other letters in Amber Haines’ Marriage Letters link-up. So, I’m jumping in with a letter on this month’s topic: Once Upon a Time.

Dear Glen,

Remember once upon a time, when we lived to be together? Starry eyed teenagers… with a smug certainty of our own importance and bright future… with a mix-tape blasting cheesy love songs through the speakers of your Volkswagon Rabbit… with plans growing, morphing and changing in all aspects except one – we’d be together.

We weren’t wrong about that.

I got to know a lovely young woman in my last writing class. She’s 19, the same age I was when I chased our happily-ever-after down the church aisle in my white dress. She’s in love with Mr. Wonderful and they’re making plans. She assured me that their happy ending wouldn’t dare start until they had finished school, established careers, built a nest egg, and put a down payment on a reasonably-priced nest in a good neighborhood.

The Sensible Mom in me was pleased. The Romantic Teenager in me sighed.

It wasn’t easy, getting married as young as we were. But we were too
stupid naïve, too thrilled with our new-found freedom and togetherness to care. Remember the hideous second-hand couch we were so excited to receive? It was SO uncomfortable! But we threw a green sheet over it and decided we were really grown ups now. At our age uncomfortable seating didn’t seem like such a big deal. Besides, it was just temporary. Eventually life would get easier, better, more secure.

Somewhere along the way we stopped scrambling for every penny. We added meat and the good toilet paper to our grocery list each week. Acting like grown ups stopped feeling like a thrill. We faced losses and victories, created homes and packed them into boxes, had children and buried children, changed jobs and sizes and styles and beliefs. We bought ourselves a huge brown sectional, big enough for a family of 6 to stretch out and watch American Idol together.

It is SO comfortable!

And crowded.

All along, we’ve expected things to get easier, better, and more secure. Someday.

I don’t think it ever has. The things we planned on - careers, moving away, having children… are harder than we ever expected. The things we hadn’t planned on – grief, changing goals and ideals, special needs… are more than we could have anticipated or prepared for. In many ways, those early years were the simplest ones.

The only thing we got right was that we’d be doing it all together. And even that isn’t as easy as we expected.

So I told my young classmate that. That I didn’t regret our years of eating ketchup sauce on noodles and going to the library as a “date.” That there’s no way to skip ahead, past the hard stuff. That as much as I’d like my own kids to take an easier road, I’m not sure it’s the best road. Or that it even exists.

She laughed at my jokes and nodded her head at my advice. But she didn’t really understand. Of course not. No one does. Not until they live it.

Growing up is hard. It’s been 22 years since you held my hand in the halls of our High School. We’re not the people we were then. In some ways we’ve grown together, in others we’ve grown apart.

Most days we feel old, and tired, and a little bit overwhelmed. This life stage is tough. I want to believe that it’s going to get easier, better, and more secure. I want to believe that we’ll be finished growing up and have life all figured out eventually. But I doubt it.

Maybe the only realistic goal is that we’ll face it together.

After all we’ve been through… that’s good enough for me.

Loving you more than ever,

Christie

So here’s us.

CHRISTIE HOOS

So Here's Us

THE 3 YEAR OLD

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

Every year on their birthdays, Glen and I write a Birthday Letter to each of our kids. What they were like that year. What strengths and talents we see in them. What words of wisdom we have for them.

Someday, they might even appreciate the gesture.

From Mom…

I write about you ALL the time! This past year you’ve hogged the ink in my journal and the word count on my blog. 

Sometimes I wonder if I’m overdoing it. If one day, you’ll look back and shake your head at all the gushing and worrying and over-analyzing. Will I embarrass you?

A decade from now, I can practically guarantee it. But right now, you don’t know the meaning of the word. That might be the best part of being 3. Especially a 3-year-old YOU!

You are wholeheartedly and unabashedly yourself. You have no use for limits at all…

Not social conventions.

Not medical diagnoses.

Not the laws of gravity.

Not fences or child-proof locks or boundaries.

And while this tendency can be both exhausting and terrifying for us, I hope you don’t lose it entirely.

You are my exuberant, half-wild, but entirely charming boy! This year we will try to keep our wits and keep you alive, without taming you completely. If you need to run, run toward us, not away. If you need to climb, chose somewhere safe. If you need adventure, take us with you.

You are a fearless explorer in perpetual motion! Right now your most common phrase is “I GO TOO!” as you race as fast as your little legs can go toward your next adventure. You were not made for sitting still. Or staying in bed, apparently, which has caused no end of late night power struggles and overtired shenanigans. I know it’s hard for you to downshift from your high speed lifestyle, but trust me, sleep is good.

You have one of the happiest natures I’ve ever seen! While your moments of frustration are impressively loud and passionate, once the tantrum has passed, that toothy grin comes back in full force. Happy is your default setting. And you’re always eager to share the sunshine. Our Child Development Worker coined the phrase “aggressively affectionate” to describe you. Not all your friends and cousins appreciate the full-body tackle-hug the way we do, so this year we’ll work on reading people’s cues and showing love in other ways. If all else fails, know that Mommy is ALWAYS up for one of your tight-squeezy-whole-body-melting-into-it-Hugs (ALWAYS… like, this offer will not expire during the teen years or adulthood or, you know, ever).

You are an adorable chatterbox! This goes against all the boy-girl stereotypes, which shouldn’t surprise me, since I know how you feel about staying in bounds. Without a doubt, you are the most talkative child we’ve ever had. This time last year, you only had a handful of words, which you rarely used, but you’ve blown us (and your speech therapist) away with your progress lately. They call it a developmental leap. I call it, Unleashing Your Inner Announcer. Wherever we go, whatever we do, your cute little voice gives an enthusiastic running commentary.

I’m not going to lie. You keep us hopping. I’ve reached heretofore unknown regions of exhaustion this past year. But chaos has never been so fun.

I love being your Mom!

Happy Birthday 3 year old!

From Dad…

Dear S,

When I wrote your birthday letter last year, I barely knew you. We were still just figuring out this whole daddy-son thing, and you had just had your entire world turned upside down. New home. New family. New food. New routines. 

Everything – new.

One year later, we’ve all come a long way. We’ve learned to anticipate at least some of your moves, and you’ve learned how to play us to get your way sometimes too.

If I could sum up the past year in one word, it would be RUNNING. You, running, always on the move, finding ways to escape just when we thought we had you locked down, creating danger where we thought we had ensured safety. Us, running, trying to keep up with you, attempting to even get one step,ahead… occasionally.

You’ve forced us to become more creative and resourceful. If we’re not trying every strategy under the sun to keep you in your bed at night, we’re divining inventive ways to make it impossible for you to climb the deck railing and fall into the backyard two stories below.

You’ve forced us into action. For a family that loved their peace, quiet and a good book, the addition of a hyper-energetic little dude who can’t sit still for a second was quite the adjustment. It’s been good for us.

Most of all, you’ve forced us to love. Not that we didn’t love before, and not that it was against our will. But you, my son, are undeniably lovable. Sometimes we get frustrated by your latest escapade, but then you flash us that ear-to-ear grin and instantly transform our righteous anger into laughter. It’s really not fair. But it’s probably going to get you out of all kinds of trouble over the years. Because who can resist?

So here’s to you. Happy Birthday 3-year-old! And just so you know, I’ve been working on the assumption that by the time you’re four, our life will be slightly less frantic. Do you think maybe we can make that happen… please?

Love,

Daddy

CHRISTIE HOOS

So Here's Us

THE PAST

I keep memories.  Lots of them.  Scrapbooks, boxes, folders and journals with stories of life that I pray one day will fall in to an order that will make sense to my kids someday.  I have dreams of them flipping through the pages and knowing the history of their first steps, how Mama and Papa met or what life was like as the grew up.  I have always done this and I probably wouldn't know how to stop, even if I wanted to.

But life isn't slowing down and there comes a time when you must get rid of some things before you end up on that show Hoarders.  During spring cleaning, I found a box filled with old letters and emails I had printed for the purpose of keeping to record history.  They were from a wide assortment of people and it was really quite fun to read over them and relive a few fun moments of the past.  Mixed in the tall stack were some from my husband when we were in the dating stages.  Those were special.  Those I set aside to read with him later.

Yeah right.  Like I have patience.  After sorting for a few more minutes and tossing 75% of the stack that were just forwards I apparently thought were funny/historical, I thumbed through the treasure pile.  On the top was hillarious poem I wrote about his willingness/comfort to fart in front of me and how important that made me feel.  I know...odd.  Don't judge us.  ;)  Following the "cute" rhyme was a collection of emails and quick notes filled with angry and sarcastic words that we shared about who knows what.  It hurt to read the words.  In an instance, I felt unloved by the man I have been married to for nearly seven years.  The man I KNOW loves me.  Sitting on the floor of my bedroom, pouring over these ink filled pages, I was questioning his love and how we ever made it this long.  My hurt turned to anger and then to guilt and then who knows where.  I was a wreck.  And then he walked in.

Unprepared for the emotional onslaught that was headed his way, he smiled at me and asked what the heck I was doing.  I handed him one letter, watched him read it and then twinged a bit as he laughed it off.  "What was I even talking about?" he asked me as he casually handed it back.  I didn't know.  I just knew that he wasn't happy with me in that letter and it hurt that he ever even thought of me that way.  Ever.

The evening went on and my heart was still hurting about past hardships we had had.  I was needy for his loving attention and for him to tell me how much he loved me...all because of my stoopid trip down memory lane.  In my pity party, God interupted.  It was like he was reminding me that we all have an ugly past.  In the middle of my pity party, it was like there was this awesome slideshow of our lives and how far God had brought us.  Not only together as a couple (which in itself is a miracle) but how God had changed each of us in such huge, individual ways.  Yes, we had some horrible conversations via written word (and spoken) but we are here, now, with each other and with God leading our lives and our relationship.  It is clear that without him, the institute of our marriage would either have crumbled or not lasted much longer.  But He interupted.  And saved us from ourselves. 

And that history I can't seem to let go of?  That simple criss-cross-applesauce moment on the floor really affected me.  When God promises us that He will seperate our sins as far as the east is from the west...He does.  Maybe I should be more forgiving as well.  Yes it was a part of our story but who really needs to see the exact details?  We have forgiven each other, we have moved on and we have seperated our past from the hope that God has promised us.  And that iself, is better than any scrapbook.

AMY BALLARD

www.amybphotography.com