It’s Thursday and we’re home, he and I. Home is so much homier when we’re here together, the coming-in-the-door so much sweeter when he’s waiting. He had supper cooking when I came home, for the second night this week. I’ve gotten over feeling like I’ve failed as a wife and am just happy to have dinner with him rather than alone, like I do sometimes when he has calls or training.
We’re both of us busy these days. Lots of overtime for me. I’m trying to get more experience in collections processes and basic accounting while the work is still there. He’s working three jobs and building our house. And then there’s daily drudgery: dishes, laundry, house-cleaning. I told him the other night, I’m glad we don’t have kids in the picture yet. Life is so busy now as it is, I want to be able to enjoy being his wife, enjoy being newlywed. I’m a strange conundrum of content and discontent these days. Happy to be just us in a small apartment, yet itching for our home-for-life house that he’s building and someday, babies to fill it.
It’s an in-between stage, but isn’t every stage of life an in-between one? In between childhood and adulthood: teenage years. In between high-school and a career: college. In between college and that career: job searching. In between meeting and I-love-you-marry-me-I-do: friends-dating-engaged. In between wedding and children: newlywed. Between babies and willIeversleepatnightagain: beginning a family.
And so it goes and goes and goes because we’re always on the way to somewhere from somewhere and it’s always changing, because we’re always changing, growing, maturing, journeying. There’s no wrong stage, there’s no better stage than the one that we’re in at the moment as long as it’s the one where we’re supposed to be right now.