Friday, 20 February 2015
He turned 38 yesterday. We met when we were 18. Twenty years have slipped by so quickly, but we have used them well, to make the life we always dreamed of living together. If someone had come and whispered in my ear that I would have four beautiful children with this boy, as we stood shyly talking in that university carpark, I would have laughed at the absurdity of the idea.
Sometimes I dream myself back into the body of that shy, bookish girl and panic that I will not find my way through the labyrinth of choices I made to become the woman I now am and the family which is my world. But I always wake to find him by my side, a baby snuggled in beside me and three more slumbering in their rooms down the hallway.
Together we are growing older and wrinkled, our hair touched with grey (although I have to hunt hard through his beard to find the errant white hair that sprouts with abandon across my own scalp). Our children already think us old, as all children should think their parents. But my love for him just seems to keep growing. Each year strips away another layer of onion skin, and the soul I find beneath is shiny and new and smiling back at me with excitement at the thought of all the years ahead of us we have yet to fill with love and adventure.