We started off dating long distance, swapping weekends between Atlanta and DC. I recall many tearful Monday mornings after parting ways at the airport, tears running down my cheeks that were sore from smiling so much. Our weekends together were a blast. We played tennis, took long walks, went to concerts, and danced at weddings. We talked for hours over dinner, drank wine on back porches, took road trips, and got to know each other’s friends and families. He taught me how to play guitar and talk intelligently about Braves baseball, and I taught him how to lose graciously at Gin Rummy and appreciate The Bachelor (Brad Womack round two). We publicly displayed boatloads of affection, wrote love letters and mailed each other mix CDs.

Dating the person you are going to marry is the very very best.

Then we got married. And that sentence should definitely end with an exclamation point because our marriage has been pretty dreamy. I have to say that I absolutely picked the right one. We just fit. Of course we are two imperfect humans, sharing a life with bills and babies and a mortgage and car maintenance, and one of us can never find her credit cards and the other of us gets irrationally aggravated with a losing baseball team and being on hold with the cable provider-so naturally we have occasional squabbles and attitudes, but things on the marriage front are good. Like really really good. Lo these many years later, I still have a huge crush on him. Our marriage is not full of tension or endless compromises and negotiations. We are great friends who love spending time together, more alike than different, and so secure in each other’s love.

But because things in our marriage are “easy,” it makes it easy to get a little lazy. Many days I go straight from workout clothes to frumpy PJs with white dabs of zit cream dotted on my face. I confess that I sometimes save my most charming and engaging side for other people, my most serving and selfless side for my children, and he ends up getting whatever is left.

When I reflect back on our dating life, which seems like ages ago, I think what I miss most is the dating version of me. It was me who was different-well not different, but definitely letting my sparkliest sides shine. And falling in love brings those sparkles out, doesn’t it? I recall one specific instance that pretty much encapsulates the whole thing. It was the time I woke up at 5am on Thanksgiving morning to join him for the last few miles of a half marathon he was running. Together we ran 5 miles uphill in the dark cold pouring rain. Everything in that last sentence is just plain wrong. But this was love and we were dating and that is the kind of thing you do without even a complaint or second thought when you are dating. It wasn’t that I was selling him a bill of goods or baiting the hook-I was just all in. I had that insatiable desire to be with him and make him happy and if that meant being cold and physically exerting myself before sunrise on a holiday intended for sloth and gluttony, then damnit, let’s do it.

So today, on the eight-year anniversary of when we got engaged, I want to commit to dating my husband. Not necessarily planning romantic rendezvous and epic dates per se, though that would be nice too, but more so being the version of myself that I was when we were dating.

Sure, I got this thing on lock, but I want to try harder…

I want to put a little more effort into my after-hours appearance. I want to try to sparkle a little more. More talking, more togetherness, a touch of flirting, occasional eyeliner. I want to continue to get to know him-to ask him questions and to understand him and care more about the things he cares about. I want to compliment him and cuddle with him and go out of my way to do kind things for him. I want to (metaphorically) say yes to running together, uphill in the rain.

Let’s see if he notices.

Off to make My Man a mix CD.

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Thankfully it wasn’t long before I got my bearings and began to embrace and enjoy my new normal. I fell deeply in love with that baby and delighted in watching her discover her world. I lost track of time just staring at her and marveling at her squishy-ness and the tiny little dimple on the top of her cheek. Then I blinked and that baby grew into a hilarious adorable little person who makes me laugh every day and whose round little face I just want to squeeze because it is my absolute favorite face in the world.

We were in such a great groove with only child Harper before Hallie was born and as much as we wanted #2, I worried that the birth of our second child would turn everything upside down again. This time strangers in the grocery store were warning me that two is waaaay more than twice the work and telling me to buckle up because going from one to two is when your life really changes. I feared I would experience the same whiplash that happened when I first became a parent and I braced myself for the impact…

But you know what? Going from one to two has been really really good. Actually, it has been great. For starters, knowing what to do with a baby is a skill I already have so I got to skip most of the asinine Googling that went down round one. This time I am not constantly wondering if I am doing it right and giving myself heaps of grace when it comes to things like breastfeeding which certainly threw me for a loop as a brand new mother. Because this time I know a) what I’m doing(ish), and b) how fast it goes, I have been enjoying each day with the baby for what it is and soaking up these sweet days while my littlest is so so little.

And my world hasn’t been turned upside down because that already happened three years ago. We are firmly planted in the world of naps, parks, playdates, diapers, Daniel Tiger, timeouts, chicken nuggets, car seats and sippy cups. And I am surprised and delighted by how much I love it here. So adding another little one to the mix isn’t as big of a lifestyle upheaval. Obviously going from one to two hasn’t made my life easier or given me more free time or improved the quality of my sleep or deepened the grooves between my abs, but it has been pretty dang awesome. Our family life is richer and I am already getting small glimpses of what it will be like for those sweet sisters to have a relationship. The more the merrier. Seriously.

That being said…

The other night My Man was putting the finishing touches on Harper’s (12 step) bedtime routine and I was in the nursery bundling Hallie up and putting her down for bed. Lights off, sound machines on, doors closed. At the same time we walked out of their respective rooms, met in the hall, and high-fived as we walked downstairs together to begin the adults-only portion of the evening. Did you catch that? Instinctively we high-fived.

Bedtime with two children fees like crossing a finish line. No matter what we are doing, those divine hours between their bedtime and ours feel precious and sacred. Kicking our feet up and relaxing on parallel sofas is a well-earned luxurious indulgence. I treasure that unstructured time in the evening with just My Man when no one needs me. Ahhhh, to be single.

But sure enough I can’t turn it off.  Each night before I go to sleep I go peek in on my sweet sleeping children. I re-tuck Harper who has managed to fall asleep coverless and apparently in the middle of a game of Twister, her appendages strewn awkwardly between the wall, the bed, and the floor. I kiss her sweet dimple and simply stare at her.  Next I go in baby Hallie’s room, pick her up out of her crib and let her sleep in my arms for a few minutes before putting her back down.   I breathe in her smell and say a silent prayer of gratitude that she is mine.  Then I get into my own bed, my heart so unbelievably full it could burst.

Two is definitely better than one.

After sitting through “inspirational” hold music and running through payment and logistics over the phone, the polite representative said, “We look forward to helping you on July 9. We will be praying for your move.” The sentiment caught me off guard, but I will never turn down a free prayer.

The moving truck showed up bright and early on Saturday morning. Needless to say, we made quite an impression on the new and old neighborhood.

old house

Sharing verses from Revelation illustrated by fully-armed winged man angels will never be my approach to sharing the Good News. The new neighbors are going to have to get to know us to realize that we subscribe to a different brand of Christianity. I’m pretty sure they are expecting us to start knocking door-to-door handing out hellfire pamphlets any day now…

After we said our goodbyes to the Better Way boys, we assessed the mountain of boxes before us. How we managed to fit so much into our four room rental house remains a mystery.

Remember how the nice man from the moving company told me that he would be praying for our move? Well, his prayers worked! It started pouring down rain right when they drove away.

It was like Christmas morning when my parents pulled up with a car full of wedding presents. They had so kindly stored all of our registry treasures at their house, awaiting the day when we would have a kitchen fit for a Cuisinart and cabinet space for our china.

My parents were work horses and made themselves supremely useful for the better part of Saturday and Sunday. My dad helped with the unpacking and heavy lifting and my mom b-lined to my new closet and made sure that my hangers were coordinated. It is no surprise that the same woman who keeps her Tupperware and “junk” drawers immaculately arranged also has a knack for quickly and chromologically organizing a closet.

They certainly earned their pay, in the form of an all-expenses-paid 10pm dinner at Jalisco’s. Strip-mall Mexican has never tasted so good.

But before we went to bed that first night, My Man and I had to take care of an important detail.

Traditionally, couples share the top of their wedding cake on their first anniversary. Because we enjoyed a delicious four hour brunch on April 18, 2010, we decided that we would save the cake for the first night in our new house. We had just started the house hunt and thought that surely it would only be a month or two until we were happy homeowners. Our second anniversary came and went with plenty of romance but nary a new home.

At long last, on Saturday night we carefully unwrapped the cake. Shockingly, the cream cheese frosting stood the test of time, a move and multiple power outages. It was delicious!

Our first Sunday morning in the new house was spent picking up essentials at Costco, Target, Ikea, Lowes and Best Buys. As if that consummate consumerism isn’t enough to make your head spin, I wouldn’t let myself sit down until I had a few rooms completely unpacked. Not a good idea. By dinnertime, this was the scene:

Yes, a mad case of the spins and violent heaving from a self-induced (and self-diagnosed) exhaustion migraine. Or maybe it was the 2 ½ year-old wedding cake…?

((My Oneandonly has an artist’s eye and insisted on capturing this raw moment on film.))

We have been in the new house a little over a week now, and I can finally, finally say that I have recovered from the move. Moving straight took it out of me. All of it.  I am delighted and relieved that we opted for a house that we can grow into because I have no plans to pack up and move anytime in the near or distant future.

Come visit?

Today, I put the first thing where it belongs.  Grinning ear-to-ear, I walked in the door to the smell of fresh paint and marched my boots right to their new home.

Evvvverything has a place.  Do you know how good that feels?  ((I’ll tell you who knows how good that feels–All of those type As who live and die by Real Simple, label their clear Ziploc bags and can think of 101 ways to use a coffee filter.))

Tomorrow will feel a lot like this:

Only waaay cooler, because just some, not all, of our stuff is made of plastic.

I am beside myself with glee.

Everything has its place, now I have mine.

Last year I recapped the annual trip with a photo-essay staring my feet.

Although it was riveting, this year I wanted to give you a broader picture of our trip. It really was pure bliss.

One of the things I love most about being down at Watercolor is looking at all of the beautiful houses. Not a musty old beach cottage in the bunch.

There is something soothing about being in a community where even the sewage hoods and the lampposts are thoughtfully and uniformly designed.

Just going for a walk around the neighborhood is like thumbing through the pages of a glossy magazine. Add a podcast of All Songs Considered to the mix and there you have five of my favorite things all happening AT THE SAME TIME: walking, looking at pretty houses, listening to music, listening to smart people talk about music, and vacation. It was almost too much.

We intentionally chose to plan our spring vacation for a week that is still in the academic calendar. This meant that

1. The beach was way less crowded
2. I could get my snoop on and look in lots of windows at the interior décor without being arrested

After a delicious dinner at Fish Out of Water, we hung out by a neat fire pit by the beach-side pool.

Here I am sitting by the fire and practicing my Guliana Rancic pose: looking down and to the side. (The up-to-something smirk was my addition.)

And is there anything, anything better than going for a sunset beach cruise with The One You Love?

Well, maybe sharing a chocolate soufflé with warm flur de sel caramel sauce with him. Two nights in a row.

Ah, vacation!

Take me back.

Translation: Be cool, you ninny. It’s not yours yet and it probably never will be. So spare yourself the potential disappointment and stay cool. STAY COOL.

Easier said than done.

From the first time we saw The House, I was smitten. I went to sleep dreaming of the dark hardwoods and the open floorplan. A few days later I was completely mentally and emotionally packed and already visualizing the place where we would put the Christmas tree. I knew I was in deep.

We have been house hunting for almost a year and this was the first time anything remotely excited us. So despite words of warning and my better judgment, I willingly dove in headfirst. While My Man kept his poker face, I was just excited to be excited.

I imagined what my life would be like in the beautiful master bathroom. You know, to have somewhere where you really feel squeaky clean? I dream of it! Since I left the nest (my parent’s house) I’ve never lived anywhere where I have even been tempted to take a bath. It should be noted that I LOVE baths, but the bathroom at our current digs is far from spa-like. And there is always the possibility of an unwelcome surprise visit from the landlord…

When I drew a picture of The House in white icing on My Man’s Toaster Strudel, I knew things had gotten pretty bad. But I willingly let myself go there.

The thing is, I had no idea if buying The House was even a possibility. Among other issues, The House technically wasn’t on the market yet. The important questions were swirling around my head: Can we afford it? Is it a good investment? What will our interest rate be? Will we like the neighborhood? Where will we put the Christmas Tree? When can we move in?

Over the past few weeks I have been drinking a tasty cocktail. Recipe as follows:

1 part anxiety + 1 part excitement + 1 part longing + 1 part fear of disappointment + 2 parts red wine

It goes down pretty smooth.

Well, after three weeks of conversations and negotiations, I am delighted to report that we are officially under contract. I couldn’t be more excited! I suppose I’m still supposed to be protecting myself from getting too attached, but clearly I stopped doing that a long time ago. Sure, something could still fall through. There is always the chance of termites or tornadoes. And we still have to do an inspection and the appraisal and all of that, but I am hopeful everything will work out.

Not a done deal, but pretty dang close.