It happened this morning. I did not get out of bed. Just laid still while our 18-month-old perfected his WWF moves on my head and neck. Our 5-year-old snuggled between us in that adorable let-me-poke-you-in-the-face-and-scrape-my toe-nails-up-and-down-your-bare-legs sort of way. So sweet. Normally, I’d mutter something about how I really need to get more sleep, but get up anyway and make some coffee.
Not today. I rolled over, trying to hide my tears from the 5-year-old.
My husband, who had found me sobbing in the bathroom just a few hours earlier, picked up the baby and took him downstairs. He came back a few moments later, kissed my cheek, and silently placed a cup of tea on the nightstand. I cried some more while I listened to the sounds of morning routine. The clink of dishes, the endless chatter of the 5-year-old, and the stampede of little feet running up and down the hallway.
Seriously, how can two tiny beings weighing less than 40 lbs. generate that much noise?
I could explain why I was crying, why everything seemed so overwhelming, but that part doesn’t matter. My story is not different, bigger, or more interesting than anyone else’s.
The part about my husband is more profound. We haven’t always been the perfect couple. Our bond has grown over the past 10 years into something I can’t explain, but for which I’m humbled and grateful. Where there used to be blame and anger there is now compassion and understanding. It’s been a winding path, but it leads uphill.
To be fair, some of the blame and anger stuff is still there, but we talk about things differently now. And sometimes, like today, we don’t even need to talk. We just know. It’s not all rainbows and lollipops but there are more good days than bad.
I fell in love again. It happened this morning.