Eight Years

Dear Sydney,

I want to give you a romantic story. I want to tell you about a time when I was walking across a college campus and a strikingly handsome young man caught my eye and I said to myself, "That's the man I'm going to marry."

I want to tell you about a courtship that took us on a trip around the world. I want to tell you about a proposal that made my heart flutter and time stop.

I want to tell you about a wedding day in which I looked like a princess and your dad was Prince Charming personified.

I want to tell you these things because they are the things all little girls want to hear and all women wish they could say.

I want to tell you these things, but as much as I spin and retell the story of how I met and married your dad, none of those things quite fit.

I will tell you that this is your dad and me on our wedding day, eight years ago.

Don't let anyone tell you that your teens or your 20's are the high point of your physical beauty. It's all about how you live. Your dad and I ate too much, drank too much, and yes, smoked too much, in our 20's to be beautiful.

The real romantic story I can tell you is this. I found a man who loves me when I am crying my eyes out for no reason whatsoever, who loves me when I am screaming at the top of my lungs... at him, who loves me when I am sick and disgusting, who loves me silly and forgetful and unreasonable and stubborn. I found a man who will admit when he's wrong and stand up when he's right. I found a father for my children and an equal partner in life for myself.

Romance isn't a gaze across a crowded room.

Romance is flowers in a vase on my dresser almost every Saturday for no other reason than "just because."

I spent years trying to find my soulmate and then years dating your father trying to decide if he was "the one."

I wish I had spent those years becoming the woman I needed to be to have the soulmate I thought I deserved.

Romance is that your father and I decided to become those people together.

So don't ask me for a romantic story about your dad and me. Just look around our home... at the flowers on the dresser, the dishes done, the laundry put away, the love notes, each one written after we were married, tucked away in that secret drawer I expect you to find. That's the romance. I hope you see it because it's the kind of romance I want you to look for in your own life.

Love,
Mom