A big thank you to everyone who sent their love and support on Monday. This is always a tough week for us and it was so lovely to have your wonderful comments to help us through.
I sometimes wonder what love really is. What it’s made up of. All the little pieces that come together to make two people collide.
I see so many movies, so many TV shows, read so many books – about love.
They all make me nostalgic. For the beginning of love. The newness. The first kiss.
Because isn’t that what most movies, TV shows and books are about? That all consuming, all encompassing, lustful abandon at the beginning of a relationship.
If they are not about the beginning of love then they are about the end of it. The unhappiness of falling out of love. Of having love ripped away. Stolen. Crushed to the ground. A fire rampaging between two people, so that something new can grow there. New love – again – between those who were torn asunder, or with someone new.
Either way, I rarely, if ever, see portrayal of real, established love.
Perhaps it’s too boring? Not sensational enough. Pedestrian. Because whenever I see established relationships they are portrayed as stagnant and unfulfilled, or oversexed, passionate, highly strung and volatile.
Perhaps that’s how relationships truly are – and Pal and I live in a truly boring, yet uncommon bond.
I doubt it.
I think media portrays love this way, because it’s what we want to see.
Who wants to watch a normal, everyday couple, with normal everyday concerns and stresses?
Struggling with a mortgage, young kids, lack of sleep.
What’s sexy about that? Where’s the drama?
I’m guessing daily arguments about whose turn it is to get up with the kids at 5am, or who promised to do the dishes and didn’t, isn’t really drama.
It is real life though. Real love.
I don’t swoon over my husband. I do still find him attractive. Frankly, I’d like it if we got it on more frequently. But I don’t swoon.
I don’t love him with every fibre of my being. I don’t feel butterflies when he enters the room. I am not consumed by thoughts of him during the day, except to wonder when he’s coming home. Mostly because the idea of getting out of an afternoon of nappy changes gives me a thrill.
But out of all the people I know, Pal is the one I would choose to spend time with. Every time.
Of all the decisions I have made, I know that choosing Pal was the right one.
When all our debts are settled, when all our children grown, Pal is the one I want to travel the world with. And the one I want to stay at home with.
After five years of marriage, three children and a hell of a rough trot, Pal is the one.
There are no lightning bolts. There are very few surprises. There is no lingerie, no rose petals and no champagne. There is rarely excitement, few thrills, and there is very little sleep.
There is love.
Real, everyday, boring, cohabitation love.
And there is nothing pedestrian about that.