Two nights ago I was sitting in bed, reading. I was a little annoyed because it had been a long day, and it always takes The Boy twice as long as me to get ready for bed. It always takes The Boy twice as long as me to do anything. I looked up and saw him standing in the bathroom, pulling the hair out of my brush. I’m a shedder, and I’m spectacularly lazy, so my hairbrush usually looks less like a brush and more like a large furry paddle. And there he was, pulling the hair clumps out for me, for no good reason.
I’ve been very absent from the blog lately, and I can’t say I’m sorry. Life in the tiny cottage has just been so, so sweet, and there’s nothing else I would rather be doing than sitting here, watching my guy make me pancakes for lunch. We’ve been apart for a very long time, and I think after awhile we both got so used to being not-whole. These days, we’re remembering how to be with each other, how to love someone who’s sitting right there next to you on the couch. I’m enjoying so much that: making him tea in the morning, and grocery shopping together, and talking about what to make for dinner. Other things are less wonderful: the heated arguments in IKEA (is this the mark of an adult relationship?), the fact that he never gives me enough space when I’m writing. But everyday I wake up and learn how to be with him all over again, with all the joy and aggravation that that entails. And it’s pretty grand.