I read someone else's love letters this week. Two unbelievably adorable, intelligent people fell in love between the lines of their blog posts. They wrote about Big Things and God and Love in the Hard Places and Redemption and Philosophy, and...
Read moreThe marriage bed
When Matt first brought me home to the brownstone apartment in Oak Park, we laid down in the marriage bed belonging to his grandparents. It was thick and dark, heavy old wood, storing memories like secrets we would never know. I guess you would call it mid-century, all clean lines and right angles and the start of our prairie life together.
Unfortunately, we broke it less than a year in, the victim of a tickle fight. I swear.
Read moreWe do marriage counseling (and 5 signs it may be time)
image above: courtesy of Verite Photo.
So now you know Matt and I do marriage counseling. While we haven't found an Irish counselor yet, I'm wondering if it's time to do the leg work necessary before a crisis hits. Here's our personal 5 signs when it's time for us to go back to marriage counseling:
Read moreWe do marriage counseling (and it is good)
image above: courtesy of Verite Photo.
I'm in this weird phase right now where I try to decide what's blog-worthy and for public consumption and what's best to remain just-for-us. Some things are obvious - do you really want an hourly recap on our potty training escapades? - while others remain elusive and ambiguous.
Read moreThe shadows of someone's masterpiece
Oak Park is a dream. When I close my eyes and try to remember when, I realize the colour of the floorboards is gone. I can't find the smell of the bookshop. We moved away from those tree-lined streets 12 years ago and I find myself still wishing we could go back, sit in the park across from Hemingway's old place, my head in your lap and the church bells ringing.
We would ride our bikes on those streets, looking at these old victorian houses, the craftsman porches. You had your favourites and I had mine, and we envisioned this prairie life in the city, where we'd walk our children to school. Sit on the porch swing. Knock down some walls and plant a lilac bush. Open our own bookshop.
There were all these Frank Lloyd Wright places and we could never decide on one. You know, just in case. You liked the one with steep, sharp angles. I like the one with the rounded front door. These were our Sundays, spent in the shadows of someone's masterpiece. Oh, we had so much time.
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