Weddings are blissful, especially if you're just a guest and haven't witnessed any Bridezilla moments about hairstyles or catastrophes like misplaced bouquets and musicians who stop playing in the middle of the seating of the mothers.
But marriage? It's work. For nine years we've been trying to understand each other. Idiosyncracies that were charming in those blissful eighteen months of courtship are now grounds for arguments.
He always has to wait on me. To find my keys. To find my phone. To talk to my friends. To finish a book. To finish watching a movie before he could ask the most important question of our lives.
He's a very patient man, my husband. Except when he's asked our children to do the same thing more than twice. Then he's a little impatient but that's understandable. Five year olds just don't operate on the same frantic time schedule as the rest of us. Which I keep trying to remind him.
But he's never frantic (even when we’re late). Sometimes I wish he was so I wouldn't be alone in my freak out sessions. Then again, I guess if he were falling apart too, there would be no one to put me back together.
We participated in a Bible study a few years ago about marriage and how couples enter into it with desires, but along the way, those desires become expectations and the unfullfillment of those now expectations is what drives away any hope of marital bliss.
I've fallen victim to that. I expected a bigger house by now. Nicer furniture. More disposable income. Less stress.Instead I have a cozy brick ranch we can't sell, an IKEA sofa with marker stains, and a budget that gets tigher every month. And lots of reason to stress.
But I also have three little girls with their daddy's mile-long eyelashes.
And sometimes on a Saturday morning they all wind up in our bed giggling and tickling and making all those small annoyances a bit smaller.
And I have my moment of bliss.