.jpg)
.jpg)
By Todd CraigTen years ago, on New Year’s Day, my world collided with my husband’s world for the first time. Ten years, man. To some couples, like my parents and their 43 years together, I’m sure the number ten is a cute one - like a five year old’s drawing of a duckie; kind of cute.
And yet ten years doesn’t feel like a number to laugh at; it feels like a bigger milestone than the others. This is probably because it is bigger, but there’s something decidedly nice about being able to say that your couplehood has stood the test of a decade’s worth of time. That this boy fell in love with that boy, and they lived happily ever after. He and I are thoroughly connected now - a part of something larger than just ourselves - and the milestones, well, they do seem worth celebrating.
So here at the start of year ten, I began to reflect. Where did those previous nine years go?
For our first year, we dated feverishly. We talked on the phone constantly. We emailed love notes. We planned everything from our next dinner out to what color we wanted to paint the master bedroom in our retirement condo. We made out in the movie theater, and we humped like bunnies in the bedroom. We fell hard and fast for one another, and soon jobs switched, we moved in together, and I proposed. Looking back, I can’t remember a more fun year. I romanced; he swooned. We both were surprised at how we couldn’t stop smiling being around each other.
Year two entirely revolved around two things: buying a house and getting married. Individually, either one of these two tasks represents a stern challenge for a young relationship. Trying both at the same time? Well, you find out real quick like whether or not your relationship will stand the test of time. We faced down decisions for everything from doorknobs to DJs, and every decision carried another bill that needed paying. But by the end of the year, we were married and moved in and borderline bankrupt, but being young and in love in your new home made it worth all of the hassle. The financial worries garnered a few nervous laughs, but we knew that we’d figure everything out somehow.
In year three, like most young couples, we decided to start a family. For us, that meant starting the adoption process, one we were assured would take at least a year, but more likely two or more according to our Denver adoption agency because we were a gay male couple. We started the process that summer, took the requisite parenting classes and wrote lots more checks. To our shock, surprise, and great joy, six months into the process - that November - we brought home our son, a beautiful infant boy.
Years four and five sped past in a blur of dirty diapers, empty formula bottles, and sleepless nights. We have pictures of these years documenting our efforts as parents. Our infant son looks adorable; we look like shell-shocked survivors of a zombie apocalypse. Apparently, we spent those years passing the baby back and forth between two far lesser versions of ourselves with uncombed hair, dubious personal hygiene, and wearing the same sweat pants and dirty t-shirts for days on end. We were sleep-deprived, money-short, and desperately trying to juggle jobs, bills, and baby while frantically gasping for sleep and sanity like a drowning swimmer gasps for air. Oftentimes, we didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when we looked at each other. The reality was that sometimes we did both.
By the time years six and seven wound down, we had found a rhythm and a rut of sorts. Wake up, jobs, dinner, sleep for us. Wake up, day care, dinner, story time, sleep for him. We paid the bills. We even hired a babysitter for the occasional night out. The bags under our eyes didn’t completely disappear, but the pictures from this time period demonstrate that we started putting on different clothes for different days.
In years eight and nine, we busted our rut as school replaced day care. Our son, now seven and conquering first grade, plays Legos, watches PBS cartoons, and masters such things as spelling and swim lessons. My husband and I are regularly too tired for regular nights out on the town, but we curl up with our laptops, watch DVDs together, and snuggle in on cold nights. We drink boxed wine. We order pizza on the weekends. Sometimes we go nuts and indulge in a soft pretzel at the mall. We hosted a family reunion this past summer. We’re even planning a vacation, our first together since our honeymoon in Hawaii.
So as we start year ten, we often marvel at how our house became a home, and how our first date became a family. I’m a husband, a father, a teacher, and a writer. He’s a husband, a mother, and a jewelry business’s administrator. Our son runs, jumps, sings, plays, and dreams of catching passes from Peyton Manning someday. My husband and I dream of a ranch house nestled against a remote hillside overlooking a nice patch of empty prairie. We feed the dogs, go to school plays, pay the bills, and make each other laugh. We laugh at first grade knock-knock jokes. We laugh at farts at the dinner table. We laugh at each other. As a family we get the giggles pretty often.
It occurs to me that I have no idea what the rest of year ten will be like, nor do I know anything about the decades after that. I don’t worry about it in the slightest, though. For now, it’s enough to be grateful for ten years of home, husband, son, dogs, dreams, love, and laughter.
In fact, after further consideration, maybe ten years is something to laugh at. After all, it is what we as family do best.
