dear husband-to-be,

i've been thinking of you lately. and missing you. and wondering if it's possible to miss someone you've never met.

if there is such a thing as past lives then i must know you. and missing you makes perfect sense.*

sometimes i'm so thankful that you don't know me right now. that you weren't there for the dark period. that you don't know this ugliness in me.**

and then other times i know that this ugliness is not an ugliness at all. and it's shaping the woman you'll one day marry and i want you to be here for it. because it's important. and defining. and because you'll help me. you'll help me heal.

as a child i hated to dream. the dreams were either bad: nightmares. or disappointing: i'd wake to find they hadn't actually happened. no good came of night-time dreaming.

but last night i dreamt of you. i dreamt of you and it was good. and what i remember--what i remember more than anything else--even more than the butterflies in my stomach--i remember fitting into the crook of your arm. literally and metaphorically. and nestled there i knew i was home.

and so when i woke this morning i was anything but disappointed. you're near. i feel you near. come closer.

i miss you. come back to me,

your wife-from-countless-other-lives-before-this-one

*the thing about past lives (in my limited understanding) is that all your lives are populated by many of the same people. the people may take on many different forms, but their energy--their spirit or soul--is the same. so your husband in one life may very well be your husband in 80% of your other lives.

**this ugliness in me...well, that's ned. if you're confused as to who ned is look to my sidebar. and there you'll find many a link which will help clarify this grotesque and mystical creature.

little scooter. big skateboard.

dear husband-to-be,

promise that when you take our little boy (or girl) to school and he (or she) wants to ride the scooter, you'll say yes.

you'll say yes because you'll ride right alongside. on your skateboard. yes, your skateboard. 

man, you are just so damn cool.

love,

your i-can't-believe-i-got-this-lucky wife-to-be

do it on the front stoop.

I have two recurring fantasies.

The first involves wood floors, clean white socks, and the song Isn't she lovely. He's wearing boxer briefs and I'm swimming in his oversized Hanes t-shirt, a relic from his college days that's about one wash away from complete disintegration. We both have the white socks on. Ankle socks to be exact.

He sings along to the stereo and we dance--slipping and sliding, unleashing the inner eight-year-olds who know how to turn any wood floor into a veritable slip-and-slide wonderland.

The second is this.

I want to find him on the doorstep. Unexpected. I want to turn the corner after a long day, a long month, a long year and find him half-smiling with a bouquet of flowers. He'll be sitting there. And when he sees me, he'll stand. At first I won't understand. Who is this man I knew a million lifetimes ago? I'll climb the steps and he'll step aside. I'll put the key in the door and pause. I'll feel his breath on my neck. And his silence will fill me, satiate me. I'll push the door open and he'll follow in step. And we'll begin our life together, as we've always known we would.

That's what I want. To find the man I dream of sitting on my front stoop. Waiting.

So my dearest, darling-est, dreamiest husband-to-be, know this...

don't take me to the opera. or the rainbow room. don't make it a carriage ride through central park or a weekend getaway. i'm not even sure i need you to get on one knee. but do it on the door step. on the front stoop. sitting next to me. on the same level. turn to me and ask me to be your best friend, your lover, your absolute equal. so that then we can go inside and begin our life together, as we've always known we should.

That being said, you sure as hell better ask my father first. I believe in chivalry. And I was raised in the South.

Disclaimer

dear husband-to-be,

i have a leaky left eye. this means i sometimes have to do my makeup twice. nobody knows the cause. it began two years ago. and because of this i'll often be late. and then other times i'll show up to your office christmas party with only one eye done.

i'll cry at the silly things. and i won't always say the right thing. half the time i won't actually say anything at all--chalk it up to my irish-catholic roots--and you'll have no idea what i'm thinking or feeling. but i'll work on this.

i'll dance around the house in just my socks and underwear. a lot. and i'll expect you to join in. i'll always play in the snow. snow fights. snow angels. i'll want to wake up in the middle of the night--the silent night--when the snow is untouched. and i'll pretend that we--just the two of us--make up the whole of the world. i'll sing in the shower and that's how you'll know i'm happy. i'll dust and vacuum and i'll chuckle at your dirty socks under the bed. but when i ask you to pick them up i'll expect you to do it. and i'll hope for surprises. silly ones. little ones. or flowers.

for at least a little while, our kids will be raised in Montclair. it's where my parents started out. and it's where i spent summers. i have roots there. we'll ride our bikes and make friends with the neighbors. the kids will play soccer and sign up for little league. and they will be safe. the schools are good. and we'll be happy.

and maybe we'll live in Europe. for a time. on a cobble stone street amidst a thousand years of history. and we'll make our own history. and we'll make our own roots.

and we'll go skiing and always make time for the other's in-laws. and we'll exchange homemade gifts and start silly traditions. i love silly traditions. and if you'd let me i'd marry you in the rain. just so long as i could see your eyes.

i'll never be the perfect wife. the put-together wife. i'll listen to corny music and watch too much t.v. and i'll eat too many m&ms. and i won't cook well. i probably won't cook at all. i'll need you for that. i'll make a mean salad and help the kids make jello, but you'll have to make the cupcakes for the school bakesale.

oh, and i have smelly feet. and sometimes i wake up at night with a charlie's horse. and i'll always want to play charades. and when we go to the beach i won't tan.  i'll cover myself in spf 50 and a long t-shirt. but that won't stop me from spending all afternoon bobbing along with the waves or attempting to surf. i'll fall off every time but laugh all the while.

and sometimes i'll want to go to the arcade to play air hockey and foosball. while other times i'll stay up all night playing video games.

but at Christmas time i'll need you to drive around the suburbs with me just to see all the lights. and watch it's a wonderful life and the sound of music. and kiss me like it's the first time.

just so you know.

love,

me