All Your Perfects
Page 44
I guess that means I’m left with talking about the future.
If all goes as planned, you’ll be reading this letter on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. You might cry a few tears and smear the ink a little. Then you’ll lean over and kiss me and we’ll make love.
But . . . if for some reason, you’re opening this box because our marriage didn’t work out how we thought it would, let me first tell you how sorry I am. Because I know we wouldn’t read these letters early unless we did absolutely everything we could to prevent it.
I don’t know if you’ll remember this, but we had a conversation once. I think it was only the second night we spent together. You mentioned how all marriages have Category 5 moments, and how you didn’t think your previous relationship would have made it through those moments.
I think about that sometimes. About what could make one couple survive a Category 5 moment, but a different couple might not. I’ve thought about it enough to come up with a possible reason.
Hurricanes aren’t a constant threat to coastal towns. There are more days with great weather and perfect beach days than there are hurricanes.
Marriages are similar, in that there are a lot of great days with no arguments, when both people are filled with so much love for each other.
But then you have the threatening-weather days. There might only be a few a year, but they can do enough damage that it takes years to repair. Some of the coastal towns will be prepared for the bad-weather days. They’ll save their best resources and most of their energy so that they’ll be stocked up and prepared for the aftermath.
But some towns won’t be as prepared. They’ll put all their resources into the good weather days in hopes that the severe weather will never come. It’s the lazier choice and the choice with greater consequences.
I think that’s the difference in the marriages that survive and the marriages that don’t. Some people think the focus in a marriage should be put on all the perfect days. They love as much and as hard as they can when everything is going right. But if a person gives all of themselves in the good times, hoping the bad times never come, there may not be enough resources or energy left to withstand those Category 5 moments.
I know without a doubt that we’re going to have so many good moments. No matter what life throws at us, we’re going to make great memories together, Quinn. That’s a given. But we’re also going to have bad days and sad days and days that test our resolve.
Those are the days I want you to feel the absolute weight of my love for you.
I promise that I will love you more during the storms than I will love you during the perfect days.
I promise to love you more when you’re hurting than when you’re happy.
I promise to love you more when we’re poor than when we’re swimming in riches.
I promise to love you more when you’re crying than when you’re laughing.
I promise to love you more when you’re sick than when you’re healthy.
I promise to love you more when you hate me than when you love me.
And I promise . . . I swear . . . that I love you more as you read this letter than I did when I wrote it.
I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. I can’t wait to shine light on all your perfects.
I love you.
So much.
Graham
* * *
Dear Quinn,
I’m going to start this letter off with a little apology. I’m sorry I opened the box again. I’m sorry I needed to write another letter. But I feel like you’ll appreciate it more than you’ll be upset about it.
Okay, now for math. I know you hate math, but I love it and I need to math for you. It’s been exactly one year to the day since we decided to start a family. Which means there have been approximately 365 days between that day and this one.
Of those 365 days, we have had sex an average of about 200 days. Roughly four nights a week. Of those 200 days, you were ovulating only 25% of the time. About fifty days. But the chances of a woman getting pregnant while they ovulate is only twenty percent. That’s ten days out of fifty. Therefore, by my calculations, out of the total 365 days that have passed between the day we first started trying and today, only ten of those days counted. Ten is nothing.
It’s almost like we just started trying.
I’m only writing this down because I can tell you’re starting to get worried. And I know by the time you read this letter on our 25th anniversary, we’ll probably be just a few years away from being grandparents and none of this math will even be relevant. But just as I want you to remember the perfect days, I feel like I should probably talk a little about our not so perfect days, too.
You’re asleep on the couch right now. Your feet are in my lap and every now and then, your whole body jerks, like you’re jumping in your dream. I keep trying to write you this letter, but your feet keep knocking my arm, making the pen slide off the page. If my handwriting is shit, it’s your fault.
You never fall asleep on the couch, but it’s been a long night. Your mother had another one of her fancy charity events. This one was actually kind of fun. It was casino themed and they had all kinds of tables set up where you could gamble. Of course, it was for charity, so you can’t really win, but it was better than a lot of the stuffier events where we have to sit at tables with people we don’t like, and listen to speeches from people who do nothing but brag on themselves.
The night was fine, but I noticed pretty early on that you were getting drained from the questions. It’s just harmless, casual conversation, but sometimes that casual conversation can be really tiresome. Hurtful, even. I listened, over and over, as people would ask you when we were going to have a baby. Sometimes people just naturally assume pregnancy follows a marriage. But people don’t think about the questions they ask others and they don’t realize how many times someone has already been forced to answer their question.
The first few times you were asked, you just smiled and said we just started trying.
But by the fifth or sixth time, your smile was becoming more forced. I started answering for you, but even then, I could see in your eyes that the questions were painful. I just wanted to get you out of there.
Tonight was the first time I could see your sadness. You’re always so hopeful and positive about it, even when you’re worried. But tonight you seemed like you were over it. Like maybe tonight is going to be the last event we’ll ever attend until we actually do have a baby in our arms.
But I get it. I’m tired of the questions, too. It’s breaking me seeing you so sad. I feel so . . . ineffectual. I hate it. I hate not being in control of this. I hate not being able to fix this for you.
But even though we’ve been trying for over a year, I have hope. It’ll happen someday. It’ll just have to happen a different way than we thought it would.
Hell, I don’t even know why I’m writing about this, because you’ll be a mother when you read this letter. Five times over, maybe.
I guess I’m just processing all of it. And we have so much to be grateful for. You love your job. I tolerate mine. After work we get to spend our evenings together. We make love all the time and we laugh a lot. Life is perfect, really. Of course there’s the one element of you getting pregnant that we hope makes life even better, but that will come with time. And honestly, the longer it takes, we might even appreciate it a little more. Gratitude is born in the struggle. And we have definitely struggled.
Our niece Adeline is beautiful and happy and she likes you way more than she likes me. Caroline agreed to let her sleep over last year and it hasn’t stopped. And you look so forward to when we get to keep her. I think it has made me fall a little more in love with you. I know how much it hurts that we haven’t had a baby of our own yet, but seeing how genuinely happy you are for my sister and her family reaffirms just how selfless you are. You don’t equate our struggles with their success and it makes me love that strength about you.
You’re still asleep on the couch, but you’re snoring now and I need to stop writing this letter so I can go find my phone and record it. You argue with me and tell me you don’t snore, so I’m about to get the proof.
I love you, Quinn. And even though the tone of this letter was kind of depressing, the strength of my love for you is at its greatest. This isn’t a Category 5 moment. Maybe more of a Category 2. But I promise you I am loving you harder this year than any year that came before it.
If all goes as planned, you’ll be reading this letter on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. You might cry a few tears and smear the ink a little. Then you’ll lean over and kiss me and we’ll make love.
But . . . if for some reason, you’re opening this box because our marriage didn’t work out how we thought it would, let me first tell you how sorry I am. Because I know we wouldn’t read these letters early unless we did absolutely everything we could to prevent it.
I don’t know if you’ll remember this, but we had a conversation once. I think it was only the second night we spent together. You mentioned how all marriages have Category 5 moments, and how you didn’t think your previous relationship would have made it through those moments.
I think about that sometimes. About what could make one couple survive a Category 5 moment, but a different couple might not. I’ve thought about it enough to come up with a possible reason.
Hurricanes aren’t a constant threat to coastal towns. There are more days with great weather and perfect beach days than there are hurricanes.
Marriages are similar, in that there are a lot of great days with no arguments, when both people are filled with so much love for each other.
But then you have the threatening-weather days. There might only be a few a year, but they can do enough damage that it takes years to repair. Some of the coastal towns will be prepared for the bad-weather days. They’ll save their best resources and most of their energy so that they’ll be stocked up and prepared for the aftermath.
But some towns won’t be as prepared. They’ll put all their resources into the good weather days in hopes that the severe weather will never come. It’s the lazier choice and the choice with greater consequences.
I think that’s the difference in the marriages that survive and the marriages that don’t. Some people think the focus in a marriage should be put on all the perfect days. They love as much and as hard as they can when everything is going right. But if a person gives all of themselves in the good times, hoping the bad times never come, there may not be enough resources or energy left to withstand those Category 5 moments.
I know without a doubt that we’re going to have so many good moments. No matter what life throws at us, we’re going to make great memories together, Quinn. That’s a given. But we’re also going to have bad days and sad days and days that test our resolve.
Those are the days I want you to feel the absolute weight of my love for you.
I promise that I will love you more during the storms than I will love you during the perfect days.
I promise to love you more when you’re hurting than when you’re happy.
I promise to love you more when we’re poor than when we’re swimming in riches.
I promise to love you more when you’re crying than when you’re laughing.
I promise to love you more when you’re sick than when you’re healthy.
I promise to love you more when you hate me than when you love me.
And I promise . . . I swear . . . that I love you more as you read this letter than I did when I wrote it.
I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. I can’t wait to shine light on all your perfects.
I love you.
So much.
Graham
* * *
Dear Quinn,
I’m going to start this letter off with a little apology. I’m sorry I opened the box again. I’m sorry I needed to write another letter. But I feel like you’ll appreciate it more than you’ll be upset about it.
Okay, now for math. I know you hate math, but I love it and I need to math for you. It’s been exactly one year to the day since we decided to start a family. Which means there have been approximately 365 days between that day and this one.
Of those 365 days, we have had sex an average of about 200 days. Roughly four nights a week. Of those 200 days, you were ovulating only 25% of the time. About fifty days. But the chances of a woman getting pregnant while they ovulate is only twenty percent. That’s ten days out of fifty. Therefore, by my calculations, out of the total 365 days that have passed between the day we first started trying and today, only ten of those days counted. Ten is nothing.
It’s almost like we just started trying.
I’m only writing this down because I can tell you’re starting to get worried. And I know by the time you read this letter on our 25th anniversary, we’ll probably be just a few years away from being grandparents and none of this math will even be relevant. But just as I want you to remember the perfect days, I feel like I should probably talk a little about our not so perfect days, too.
You’re asleep on the couch right now. Your feet are in my lap and every now and then, your whole body jerks, like you’re jumping in your dream. I keep trying to write you this letter, but your feet keep knocking my arm, making the pen slide off the page. If my handwriting is shit, it’s your fault.
You never fall asleep on the couch, but it’s been a long night. Your mother had another one of her fancy charity events. This one was actually kind of fun. It was casino themed and they had all kinds of tables set up where you could gamble. Of course, it was for charity, so you can’t really win, but it was better than a lot of the stuffier events where we have to sit at tables with people we don’t like, and listen to speeches from people who do nothing but brag on themselves.
The night was fine, but I noticed pretty early on that you were getting drained from the questions. It’s just harmless, casual conversation, but sometimes that casual conversation can be really tiresome. Hurtful, even. I listened, over and over, as people would ask you when we were going to have a baby. Sometimes people just naturally assume pregnancy follows a marriage. But people don’t think about the questions they ask others and they don’t realize how many times someone has already been forced to answer their question.
The first few times you were asked, you just smiled and said we just started trying.
But by the fifth or sixth time, your smile was becoming more forced. I started answering for you, but even then, I could see in your eyes that the questions were painful. I just wanted to get you out of there.
Tonight was the first time I could see your sadness. You’re always so hopeful and positive about it, even when you’re worried. But tonight you seemed like you were over it. Like maybe tonight is going to be the last event we’ll ever attend until we actually do have a baby in our arms.
But I get it. I’m tired of the questions, too. It’s breaking me seeing you so sad. I feel so . . . ineffectual. I hate it. I hate not being in control of this. I hate not being able to fix this for you.
But even though we’ve been trying for over a year, I have hope. It’ll happen someday. It’ll just have to happen a different way than we thought it would.
Hell, I don’t even know why I’m writing about this, because you’ll be a mother when you read this letter. Five times over, maybe.
I guess I’m just processing all of it. And we have so much to be grateful for. You love your job. I tolerate mine. After work we get to spend our evenings together. We make love all the time and we laugh a lot. Life is perfect, really. Of course there’s the one element of you getting pregnant that we hope makes life even better, but that will come with time. And honestly, the longer it takes, we might even appreciate it a little more. Gratitude is born in the struggle. And we have definitely struggled.
Our niece Adeline is beautiful and happy and she likes you way more than she likes me. Caroline agreed to let her sleep over last year and it hasn’t stopped. And you look so forward to when we get to keep her. I think it has made me fall a little more in love with you. I know how much it hurts that we haven’t had a baby of our own yet, but seeing how genuinely happy you are for my sister and her family reaffirms just how selfless you are. You don’t equate our struggles with their success and it makes me love that strength about you.
You’re still asleep on the couch, but you’re snoring now and I need to stop writing this letter so I can go find my phone and record it. You argue with me and tell me you don’t snore, so I’m about to get the proof.
I love you, Quinn. And even though the tone of this letter was kind of depressing, the strength of my love for you is at its greatest. This isn’t a Category 5 moment. Maybe more of a Category 2. But I promise you I am loving you harder this year than any year that came before it.
