Monday, October 25, 2010


I open the bedroom door quietly and tiptoe over to the bed careful to avoid any debris left on the floor. I peel back the covers and quickly slip in between the sheets. Curling up to his warmth, I snuggle my nose into his neck and slip my cold feet in between his. I've been up for two hours already, but every day I crawl back into bed for a precious few minutes.

These minutes? These minutes are the beginning of my day. Not my morning run. Not my shower, Not my cup of coffee or my breakfast. None of these start the day.
But those precious minutes every morning snuggled next to him are essential. They're for us. And only us.

In these minutes I dream of us. As we are. As we will be. I dream of our future and remember our past.
I dream of our children. Will they have dark hair and eyes? Or by some stroke of genetics will they have blonde hair and blue eyes? I dream of trips and vacations. Of the memories we'll create. The laughter we'll share. The tears. The secret language of our marriage we'll create over the years.

I wonder how long we'll continue to have these minutes of us before our routine becomes interrupted by life getting in the way, as it usually does.
Then I remember that it doesn't matter how long we'll snuggle in the mornings. What matters is that we have it now. And before I get up to get dressed, I give him a hug and think My husband. No two words have given me such happiness as those two have. Six months in, I still get a thrill just thinking them.

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