Yesterday would have been my eighteenth wedding anniversary. Had my now-husband, then-fiance, not broken our engagement, that is. That was my first, first-person heartbreak. Meaning, I had gone through being a child of divorce, but that was more about my parents than about me. So, this was my first, big, hard thing. And it was devastating.
But I was telling my son about it this morning, leaving out the devastating part, and I said to him, “Had we gotten married on January 25, 1992, when we were supposed to (please imagine me air-quoting feverishly right about now) instead of when we did, I wouldn’t have had you. You wouldn’t even exist.” He gave me that look that tells me he totally doesn’t know what I mean. But when I said those words while looking my sweet boy in the eyes, it took my breath away.
That devastation that I would’ve given anything not to live through back then brought me Sara and Jack. Because I’m sure that if we’d gotten married earlier, I would’ve started bugging Kevin about having kids earlier, and he would’ve relented earlier, and therefore we would’ve created altogether different human beings (well, God would have, but you know what I mean).
Side note: when I told Jack our actual wedding day and year, he didn’t say anything for a moment (turns out he was calculating) and then he said, incredulously, “You waited another almost two years?!” My response, mumbled under my breath, “You are preaching to the choir, brother.” (I got that quizzical look again.) Read the rest of this entry »










