This endeavor of early parenthood is at once both sorely trying and utterly fulfilling. The mind runs through the full gamut of emotions in the blink of an eye, as this new life we have created, who was only moments earlier screaming questioningly to the gods about her very existence on this cold and dreary slab of rock, now slips off the breast into a sleepy revelry; one punctuated by small squeaks and twitches emanating from an otherwise unconscious and completely lifeless little rag-doll body.
Today marks the third anniversary of my marriage to the most wonderful girl anyone could ask for. I love you, Jen! Three years ago today, the reception was winding down and we were weaving our way through the maze of guests, thanking them for being there and talking of our upcoming plans. I was soon to carry Jen over the threshold of our Kentwood apartment, hoping to avoid notice by our neighbors, me in my penguin suit and she in her bride’s dress.
We were in San Francisco the day of the Pride Parade but I’m sorry to say we missed the main events. With New York finally coming on board with their adoption of a same sex marriage bill, there was plenty to celebrate and it was supposed to have been awesome. California is still suffering the setback caused by some overzealous Mormons with deep pockets, but Proposition 8 is bound to come down.
I’m engaged. Only months earlier, the thought of such a declaration had sent me squirming uncomfortably and avoiding conversations. I used to have what I considered a healthy fear of commitment. My fiancé would disagree as to exactly how healthy or normal that fear was, but that’s beside the point. Even still, the thought and even the word fiancé, gives me goose bumps. No longer are they shivers of fear, but of excitement.