There's been a lot of talk lately about human rights. Who gets them, mostly. A lot of states have been voting against gay marriage - that's the issue, really. Stirring everybody up. Getting everybody all up in arms.
And, well, some day I'll explain to you why some people find it so offensive. I'll try, at least. And not every body finds it offensive - it's just there are people who believe being gay is wrong. And, this is where I falter - it's hard for me to understand. But those people are out there, and dare say I love some of them dearly. We just disagree on this issue.
But aside from all this, because there's a lot there in that above paragraph that you'll need explaining, I know - I'm being pretty obtuse .... ASIDE FROM THIS, it has me thinking. Specifically on how you'll be raised. How you won't be mainstream in many ways. How this decision we've made, your dad and I, will not always be easy for you.
Daddy refers to us already as his witches. We went out Saturday morning and he held an umbrella over us, joking it was okay if he got wet - we were the ones that would melt. And I smiled and held you tighter under his awning.
I can't wait until you're old enough that we can dress as witches together, striped stockings and all, for Samhain. For you to know it's our new year - a celebration of what's come to pass and a way to look forward. That it's more than candy and costumes and tricks.
There's a lot I look forward to. Explaining the magic inside each human being. The treasure of the stars and sun and wind. I know your daddy will relish teaching you the sacred of the natural; the ever-cycling of life, our part in it. How to be a steward and not a mindless consumer.
I look forward to cooking with you - teaching you the purpose of specific herbs in meals, how certain foods come at certain times of year. How to celebrate with them. How to make each action purposeful and hopeful. How living consciously is our prayer.
But I also know that you will run into people who will not value how we're teaching you to live. Who will devalue you due to the things we have taught you. I hope that we'll do a good enough job this will not shake you. And we won't be alone - oh, no. We'll teach you about how every one else lives too. You and Adaela will someday celebrate Christmas and she'll tell you her story and Aunt Leslie and Uncle Andy will be able to answer any question you have I falter on. Aunt Sarah and Uncle Phil, Aunt Jamie and Uncle Ryan - your dad and I have a lot of amazingly wonderful friends. All of whom will help you define your place in this world. How best to walk through it. They will all, I know in my heart, shine light on the road you choose to travel.
Nonetheless, these conversations swirling now about who has right to what. Who is allowed what. What words mean, what the government can control. The ever-blurred line between church and state . . . it has me thinking.
I'm hoping when you're older it's all better, though I know this world will never be perfect. I'm hoping that your dad and I, by surrounding you with various points of view - by teaching you respect and diligence, honor and ethics, that we will above all teach you tolerance.
I know there will be a time when perhaps you will wish your family was more like every body else's. But I'm hoping time will show you we are. That a family - regardless of the details, is a group of people gathered for the betterment of themselves and their community through love. We all deserve that.
That is what matters - throughout all of this. Love.
Sometimes it's hard to remember. Sometimes it's hard to do. But all the time, it's what ultimately matters.
Oh, small one. It is with love; great, astonishing, overwhelming love, I shall send you into the world someday.
I collapsed last night before he made his speech. Being a full-time mom has me extra tired at about ten p.m.
I awoke this morning with the sun somehow brighter. My heart lighter.
We did it. We called for change and then made it happen.
A lot of people are upset. There are snide comments across facebook about higher taxes, socialism and what have you. I coudl go on and on about how we shoudl have been paying higher taxes these last eight years (we are at war, you know). Or snide back about the proper use of the term "socialism" - but I can't. Simply put, I won't.
I'm too in love with my country right now. Too proud of myself and everyone else who stood and voted - who saw past race and party lines and came together in the hope we could redefine America to the world, and ourselves.
I truly believe these first four (maybe eight!) years will be to the benefit of my daughter. And that makes me the most happy.
And it is that hope, that belief, that has me saying:
Thank you and good luck, Mr. Obama. You're in my prayers.
She's changing every day. Growing, becoming more "her." Or, rather, learning how best to show us who she is. She has definite opinions now, preferences; she knows what pleases her - or rather, doesn't. It's wonderful to watch.
She talks more now too. She'll sit and sing with her daddy, or curl up with me and have whole conversations. I get the feeling now she's understanding more and more of what we say. I find both of us when she cries asking her to tell us what's wrong - which seems silly, I know - but she oftentimes will stop crying and in a very sad, pathetic little voice begin to actually do just that.
And oh, her faces. When she's sad it's enough to break my heart. Though when she smiles and giggles it seems my whole world brightens. She's only belly laughed once (a few weeks ago when her Aunt Leslie Stiers was here) but those smiles are enough for me. Every morning, when she wakes up next to me and Sam she looks around and fusses a bit, and then when she sees us she breaks into the greatest little grins.
I'm searching in these entries to convey to you how much I love her. How I can't remember life without her. But words fail me. All I can say is that my heart is full. I would have never imagined being so in love with my husband. Being married to my bestest friend, that he'd be such an amazing husband: that I would marry the guy I'd been dreaming about for so long. That this guy would even exist. And then, above and beyond that - I would be lucky enough to have a child with him. A child so wonderful and amazing. So sweet and already kind.
I can't. There's no way to convey to you. But I'll keep trying. One miserably written entry at a time.
So I'm a few days late, love. But I'm sure you understand. Our world has been a bit crazy and caddywhompus in the most wonderful of days. Of course you managed to give me the most wonderful anniversary present and yours won't be here until Monday - but that should come as no surprise. You always are a bit more together than I am.
And, well, despite my insanity of late this anniversary has been large in my heart. I feel like just when I couldn't' love you more, I look at our daughter and my heart swells. For her. For you. For us.
You and I.
Oh sure, "we" became "three" this year.
And throughout I was frightened on how that would affect us. I mean, seriously, we had it good. And there we were purposely messing it all up by adding a whole 'nother person to the mix. A person who would (and does) demand our every second of time, every ounce of energy - every moment of attention.
And yet, we're finding ways to find each other. Sometimes it's just holding hands walking down the street, sometimes it's sneaking a kiss over her head. Most often it's curling up together in the dark, watching her together.
And that time for the two of us is growing in small, tiny amounts - but it is growing. And though the time is small - the feelings aren't. She might demand a lot - but she gives as much, and one of the biggest things she's given me is a new understanding of you.
A new, deeper love for you.
You as a father. The man who never runs out of funny songs to sing her. Who has endless energy to dance with her when she's tired. Who can make her laugh above anyone else. Who she clings to and so obviously loves. And your love for her is so very obvious. You seem to never tire. Of taking care of her, or me.
When I look at her, I see you reflected. I see your smile, your eyes. Your sheer ornery looks. And I know, I know in my heart, that what makes her so extraordinary, so sweet and wonderful is you.
And I know the same is true for me. You make me better. A better person, and most importantly, a better mother. I am, now this moment, who I am because of your endless love and support of me. Of your tireless devotion to me.
And in those moments in the dark, when your arm is around me and we whisper to each other how wonderful she is - I can't help but marvel too at how wonderful we are. How lucky I am. How proud I am that she will grow up with us as parents. Not because we know what we're doing, not because we've figured it all out. Not even because we're especially good at it.
But because we are in love. Endlessly. Madly. Deeply in love.
And always will be. Oh, my love. It was true on that windy Saturday sunset-filled evening, and it is true now.
My hand, my heart, my soul are yours. In this life and all the ones to come.