Pen Pals

Cards from two dear Canadian friends.

When he was in third grade, Jeff had a pen pal named David who was a soldier in Operation Desert Storm. Unlike my students today, Jeff didn't text or email David, he wrote to him by putting ink to paper. Though we don't know where David is or what he is doing today, I'm certain that he remembers the letters from the little eight-year-old boy in Connecticut who painstakingly wrote out his daily activities.

Spring treats from a woman who
indulged my love of lotions and lip balm!

Today, pen pals are almost entirely a thing of the past. It's rare to receive a handwritten card in the midst of piles of coupons, bills, and notices. Of course, I write the appropriate thank you notes and Christmas cards, but, with the singular exception of my mum--who lovingly and regularly sends me little missives--I don't really have any pen pals anymore. Or I didn't--not until our little Blueberry brought a few into my life.

A summer care package from a woman
who has prayed Psalm 37:4 for me daily.

The pen pals I have today are both traditional and contemporary--some send cards and packages while others check in daily on message boards and via email. They're spread all over the continent--from North Carolina to Canada and beyond--and I haven't met a single one of them. Rather, we are united by a shared bond that blessedly few other women in my life understand, and our frustration and heartache and laughter and tears bind us together despite space and time. They are some of the strongest women I know, women who I admire and strive to emulate. And as they follow my journey, I follow theirs.

As a result, today's post is--very simply--dedicated to all of you who read this blog without seeing me every day. Those of you who check in on us, who follow our story, who grieve and cheer with us, who find ways to provide intangible support and love. I'm honored to call you my pen pals.




Want to get to know some of the amazing women I admire? Here are some links to their blogs:

http://the-canadian-housewife.blogspot.com/ "Learning how to live, laugh and love after loss" (with some seriously adorable, affordable, and easy home projects and kitchen experiments care of Jenn and her husband, Dan)
http://growbabysmithgrow.blogspot.com/ "Our story of hope and faith through three miscarriages, an ectopic pregnancy, IUI, and now IVF!" (now featuring some awesome news as we cheer on the little rockstar Laura is growing!)
http://booksanddancing.blogspot.com/ "Dancing my way through life, loss, and books" (Need a book to read? Stasy has many recommendations, beautifully interwoven with her own story.)
http://oneemerald.blogspot.com/ Celebrating Megan and Daniel's faith that has led them through loss and into new life

Happy Engage-a-versary!

(Sinatra Drive in Hoboken, NJ, November 19, 2008)

Four years ago tonight, the moment above occurred. Miraculously, Jeff managed to stun me into speechless surprise; the look on my face is no trick of the camera or well-acted choice--it's complete and total shock as a tiny ring box opens.

It's actually a miracle we even got to the point of the ring box, to tell you the truth. Not knowing any possible reason why Wednesday, November 19, might be a significant day, I had already canceled my own engagement by throwing a tantrum about how we couldn't afford to go out to eat. Once we got over that hurdle, friends set me up to pick the "right" restaurant for dinner (Trinity, the location of our first date), yet I chose Cuban for no apparent reason. The night of the actual engagement, a meeting ran late at work, and then the friend who was bringing me to Hoboken ran late, all resulting in a very anxious future fiance pacing the river. All that is to say nothing of my attempt to go directly into the restaurant--rather than to the bench where Jeff sat (it was cold!), or my three interruptions of the proposal-I-didn't-know-was-a-proposal.

Finally, Jeff got to the end of the words he'd planned for months: "You've swept me off my feet; I'd like to sweep you off yours for the rest of your life." And what did I do? Offered a "That's so sweet," followed by a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, followed by standing and stamping my cold feet. As a result, the moment above is the direct result of my endlessly patient husband sharply calling "Tory!" and opening the box I didn't even know he had.

Little has changed in four years. Jeff remains endlessly patient, and I continue to interrupt the majority of his important speeches. I still try to control where we go and when we go there, and he still beats me to the punch some days. And, no matter what, November 19 has always remained as our day--our own personal holiday. I somehow always manage to forget the exact date, but Jeff never does. There's always a card on my bedside table in the morning or flowers when I get home from work. This morning, there was a small pile on the butcher block in the kitchen: soft, fuzzy socks, portable hand warmers, and a card that read "Let these gifts warm you as you always warm me... or at least... warm those cold piggies [toes and fingers] of yours." This day--our day--marks the beginning of when we knew our life would be together always.

How honored I am to call this man my husband, the one I pledged to love forever and a couple of extra days.

Yup. I married ALL of that.

The man I love, prepared for anything Snor'eastercane 2012 might bring!

I adore my husband. I am awed by the way he cares for me, in the midst of the calm and the storms and everything in between. He knows when to ask the tough questions and how to prod me out of my comfort zone, but he's also well aware of when the right answer is Annie's mac 'n' cheese and a glass of chardonnay.

Not one of his home-bartending creations, but an equally delicious moment!

And he doesn't just care for me; instead, he has a long track record of nurturing my friends, too. He's sat through countless hours of chick flicks, through long nights of tears, and through being the only guy for a night out in the town center (which sounds enviable to some men, until they realize it's just four girls gossiping about fashion and work for several hours). He never complains, either; instead, he's quick to toss an extra (veggie) burger on the grill or whip up another round of cocktails.

The pumpkin-carving and fire Jeff prepared for my girlfriends and me the night of the hurricane.
(There were S'mores, too--we just didn't have enough time to get to them!)

And he makes me laugh--really laugh--at least once every day. He sends a fabulous Get Fuzzy cartoon to my phone or stalks Ozzy around our house, looking for all the world like a giant cat/child hybrid. He tells me stories of the things his first-grade students say in acting class and points out the kids in our neighborhood doing silly things. He agrees to watch a half-hour sitcom I love (in place of an hour of Discovery Channel) just because he hopes it will make me smile.

Sticking out our tongues (just 'cause) on top of Federal Hill, Baltimore.

The lists could go on and on, but I'll stop here (for now). Boo, you're right, we made a family the day we got married. I want to be silly and sappy and sentimental with you forever and a couple of days!

Of hair salons...

I'm currently sitting in the chair at the salon, waiting for my color to permeate my hair follicles while reading magazines, checking my phone, and sipping wine (it's a Reston salon--they don't mess around!). At one point, going to the stylist was fun; I loved coming out feeling EVEN fresher and younger than when I went in--but those days seem to be gone.

Now, I put off coming back to the salon for as long as possible, which really means until even wearing my hair curly won't cover the grey anymore. I hate making small talk with my (really lovely and sweet) stylist; I hate looking at all the beautiful, young, glamorous women around me; I hate looking at my pudgy chipmunk cheeks and double chin in the mirror when my hair is slicked back with color or water. Today, I particularly hate how bloated and sad I feel, thanks to the spot I'm in in our current cycle.

How is it that the thing that used to make me feel so beautiful now just makes me feel defeated? When did going to the salon become about covering up the perceived ugly instead of highlighting the present beauty? And how will I ever reclaim feeling beautiful and successful just because I'm me--not because I'm a good teacher or wife or friend?

I wish changing my mental state was as easy as changing the color of my hair.