From the looks of the tray with its silver-green tarnish, you’d think we’d been married 100 years. But no, it was a gift for our wedding a mere five years ago.
Five years. A blip in the radar in the grand scheme, I imagine.
But five years, babies, five years! So much has happened in this past five years…
I look at pictures of myself on my Honeymoon, that girl with the long reddish brown hair, and I think look at her, look at her! Having just left the corporate world the week before our wedding I boarded that plane to Hawaii 100% carefree. Technically I had no job to report to (aside from the lifelong pressure I’d imposed on myself to pull prose out of my blood and publish books). There was no one to think about covering for me back home. No out of office email. No need to check in. I’d checked out, and read books under mangrove trees…
I know now there will never be a time when I will be that carefree again.
Four years seems to be a pattern.
Four years of high school. Four years of college. Both feel like forever when you’re in it. Maybe because so much goes on when you’re there, so much nonsense which is secretly so much growing. In fact you will enter both of these places one person and leave another, guaranteed.
This past five years has felt long, too.
So much life has happened.
I remember shortly after our wedding–that glorious, crisp January night–a friend joking to me, “so when are you going to have a baby now?”
I laughed and told her, will full confidence, the first baby is the book!
Here I am with two babies, and no book.
That saying “if you want to make God laugh make a plan” comes to mind. To God I must be friggin hilarious. Heaven’s Class Clown. Keep planning, little girl, ho ho, hee hee, keep planning…
We were going to plan a trip for our anniversary. A big one to the beach. Someplace warm. I threw out The One and Only Ocean Club in the Bahamas. I’d wanted to stay there ever since I saw the movie “My Father the Hero” that was filmed there when I was fourteen. (Yes, I always did have a movie thing.) This summer your dad and I would be up late looking at pictures of it curled over the ipad, imaging pina coladas by that turquoise water.
We didn’t feel like it.
I did not want to get on a plane and leave you for that long. I’d be relaxed for what, a day there? And then I’d miss home.
“Too big of a trip…” your dad agreed.
“Too hard for you…”
This weekend I’m joining your father on a work trip in Atlantic City instead.
I’ve never been there before.
Your dad’s company has chartered bus.
I’m in a panic at the moment trying to pack for it. I think I might be going to a “nightclub” and I don’t have shoes, at least not ones that can’t be worn hiking or to a taping of the Ellen Degeneres show (see also, black and white oxfords).
I’ll miss you, but at least I won’t feel that far away, at least it’s just for a weekend, at least I can sleep in (!) and go to the bathroom with the door closed and not have to startle a waiter by reaching for the butter to hide it before it can be placed before you guys on a table (you just can’t handle yourself around it, Baby Girl, I’m sorry, you eat packets of it, you lose all control). These things will be nice.
It will be nice to be with your father, too.
A few nights ago while watching television together we rose from the couch at a commercial break at the exact same time.
“Whoa, synchronized Denby standing!” I exclaimed.
He smiled while shaking his head.
“You are such an idiot,” he said through a grin.
And I know that he meant that in the best possible way.
Happy Anniversary to your dad and me.