Ten Years Later: Happily Ever After, Then and Now

FORWARD:

Ten years ago today we entered into wedded bliss. 

The only regret I still have from our wedding was how the pictures turned out; though there were lots of great ones, the resolution of the digital files we received was so low it rendered most of them fuzzy, pixel-y, and unprintable. 

This week, we received our professional photos (<---thank you from my heart for these memories, Milana!!!) from the birthday shoot I scheduled in our wedding garb. I was beyond excited. I love beautiful pictures, and have always reveled in authentic beauty that points to the Divine.

This time, the photos were fantastic and usable, and I couldn’t wait to share them far and wide. {Wedding day on the left; 10 years later on the right}.

We re-created this picture during our recent trip to West Point for our
10-year reunion; it's our favorite bridge over the reservoir.

One of the main catalysts behind these 10-year anniversary pictures was a spontaneous picture I'd taken with the kids on our 5-year anniversary after unpacking my dress from our move. After I saw the picture, it reminded me of one the wedding photographer had taken and made a great side-by-side. Thus the idea was born to do another at ten years. We'll see how committed I am to the tradition at 15 years, and then 20-ha.

At the same time, my brother, who recently lost his home in Santa Rosa, also sent me another treasure trove: a digital storage link full of pictures from the week leading up to our wedding and our wedding day itself—many that I’d forgotten about and some I had never even seen.

It led me down memory lane, and in reminiscing I realized that I had never recorded the events since I started this blog a few years after we were married. What better time than to capture said memories in writing (and simultaneously resurrect ye old blog)?
So here are the events, as I remember them, of that wonderful week leading up to November 3rd, 2007.

HAPPILY EVER AFTER: THEN AND NOW

10 years (and 1 week) ago, I was traveling back from South Carolina after graduating from initial officer training in my Human Resources specialty branch. I made a pit stop at my parents’ in Pennsylvania to squeeze in one last dress fitting & a bridal shower, pack up my stuff, and drop it all off at the rental home my loving fiancé had found for us in Fort Drum, NY. Following the stop at our first home, I circled back down to our Alma Mater of West Point, NY for those long-awaited wedding bells. 

Some homecoming squeals with my mom and then-baby (now gorgeously grown-up)
sis--the cutest and best junior bridesmaid on the planet!

Decompressing after the shower...in
my crinoline?I have no recollection of this, ha!

That stop at Fort Drum, NY, was filled with some special firsts: I stepped foot into our first house and saw the surprise wedding gift my soon-to-be-husband has procured--our first piano, a gorgeous, well-loved upright that continues to sing its happy, slightly off-key songs today (and is still a beast to move!). But most special and overwhelming was my first meeting with our playful first pup—even though I’d been keeping tabs with pictures since Peter had adopted him a few months prior, opening the door to his greeting was still quite the shock. Just like everyone else who has ever met him, I was ill-prepared that first time for the incomprehensible enormity of my fluffy son, because no pictures could accurately convey his true size. 

But that night, as I tossed and turned with sleeplessness in our new First Bed with weird pillows, my exhausted mother-of-the-bride soundly asleep beside me and my husband-to-be slumbering in the spare room, I slid out of bed to journey to the kitchen and on the way met the enormous, ever-vigilant Samson on his nighttime patrol. So I hunkered down with him in the hallway and stroked his massive head and silky ears and we bonded; his big soulful eyes looking wisely up at me, ears perking up at threatening sounds known only to him and relaxing again, always with one watchful eye on me. That will forever be my favorite first in our first home. 

Miss you, pup.

Meandering back south to West Point the next day, we began the whirlwind of last minute preparations, hair test runs, program stuffing, rehearsal dinner-ing, and all the small little details that seemed colossal at the time but really didn’t matter in the end and I have since forgotten. One of the last things I remember as we approached midnight the night before the wedding was begging to go to sleep despite the numerous things that needed to be finished. Some things never change! 

At our reception venue, taking care of something hugely important (like linen colors or something equally enthralling). 

Rehearsal dinner

Our grandmothers at the rehearsal dinner.
They were instant besties. I love this picture. 

The morning of the wedding I rushed off to my hair appointment, eating a bagel with cream cheese and downing tea with honey and lemon since a small cold had randomly turned into my first (and only since) case of laryngitis. I had no voice to say my vows! I spent the rest of the morning trying not to talk too much and communicating in a low whisper.

There somewhere...under all that hair.

There was one joyous happy dance after another as several bridesmaids and my maid of honor—who had been told they weren’t allowed to leave restrictive army training and attend the wedding—miraculously arrived, having moved heaven and earth (with a little help from heaven, to be sure) to be present for our day.

Our priest and spiritual Father from our cadet days, Father Paul, stopped by to see Peter and then me, for one last spiritual cleansing in the Sacrament of Reconciliation before we entered into the greatest Sacramental vocation of our lives.

Peter and his brother.

And what a Sacramental celebration it was. The wedding itself was full of uncontainable joy and the tiny imperfections—windy cold weather, my voice that had come back in time for vows but was deep and throaty, and the little snafoos in the details—that make it both perfectly real and spark the realization of what truly matters on a day filled with such anticipation: God, Man, Wife, and the loving community that supports them. 

To this day, I have never had so much FUN at a wedding. I laugh to think of the plan I tried to hatch with Peter to slip out of the reception at least 15 minutes early, sure that we would be exhausted and ready to escape. But between catching up with all the beloved friends and family who had traveled far and wide, between the hilarious development of Peter’s friend who begrudgingly caught the garter and his grandmother who had caught my bouquet, between the dance-off to Thriller between a groomsman and a Colonel, we couldn’t tear ourselves away from the spirit of sheer joy and celebration. The reception hall staff essentially kicked us out of the reception hall a half an hour after the party was scheduled to end.

Grandma's got jumps!

The garter awkwardness slash hilarity.

Other regret: this is the only picture I have alone with my
wedding-planner-mother-of-the-bride-in-one, as she was hard at
work fixing mybustle that had come undone!

I procured Peter's nametag as a nod to the new
nametag I'd soon be wearing on my uniform; at our
professional pictures ten years later, he remembered
this and whipped out a nametag for me to wear again. :)

The next morning as we rushed to mass, then the airport for our flight to the surprise honeymoon destination Peter had planned (Costa Rica!) we ran out of time to stop for breakfast, so we treated ourselves to what I still consider the best breakfast of all time: leftover raspberry-crème wedding cake. I swoon just thinking about it.

Zip lining in Costa Rica

- - -

Ten years later, things look a little different. Life is nothing like I imagined and exactly what I hoped for. Today we are living that nebulous picture of the happily married couple with kids, plus all the details my mind ten years ago never would’ve been able to fill out.

We are still in the army, but settled in once place--a paradox to the me of ten years ago. There was a time when I imagined us as an active duty military family, moving every few years for the rest of our life. There was a later time when, burned out by the pace of active duty army life, I absolutely knew that once we had finally escaped our Army contracts we would leave the Army behind, put down roots, and sever all military ties. But here we are, happily settled continuing the hybrid of military service called the Reserves, which suits us perfectly right now.

We are still living our dream of a [not as] big [as I once imagined] happy family, but with children who are nothing like the limited one-dimensional figures I’d dreamt up, and everything to us in our daily reality. Their beautiful faces combined with their jaw-dropping little brains, talents, interests, and individual quirks help me realize how much I still lack, but also how much Peter and I have grown in love and straightup parenting smarts.

And this week leading up to our anniversary was comically unlike that of our wedding week. We still ran ourselves into the ground with late nights and early mornings—but the parallels stop there. We made dinner reservations for our anniversary, which ten years later is a much more agonizing process than it used to be. We squeezed in hockey and choir practice, appointments and late-night mass, homework and projects, all the while doing damage control from trick-or-treating sugar highs.

By Wednesday we decided to cancel our anniversary dinner in favor of a road trip to chilly Wyoming to honor Peter’s grandfather, whose funeral was the day prior.

The five of us piled into the car along with Peter’s brother and our niece, and spent the eve of our ten full years and anniversary itself with family--celebrating life, coming together in death, and trying to entertain kids on one daggone long drive. (And now as I sit writing this, the rest of our relaxing evening was just ambushed by a sick kid).

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. (I mean, of course I'd take a pass on the sickness part, but you get the gist).

This life is never devoid of suffering, but in the same light it is never devoid of joy.

I’ve come to realize that although I love seeing the spotlight rest on so many of these beautiful, inspiring, share-with-the-world-worthy moments of our union (see: incredible professional pictures), it’s really the private, unseen moments that I cherish most in the depth of my heart.

It’s the quiet things my love does that most of the world will never see--helping kids with math when my brain's about to explode, warming up my side of the bed with his body heat on a cold night so I don’t freeze, stopping two extra times during a road trip through the Wyoming “wilderness” to find a fork so I could eat a can of tuna—because traveling with a restrictive diet is hard. Just to name a few out of the 1,035,792,914 I can recall off the top of my head. 

It’s in these little moments of our vows that receiving love means the most, and also in these that I am learning to grow the most in my call to love. It’s about loving and honoring in good times and in bad—as in, the times where it would be easier to choose annoyance, sloth, or selfishness. Loving in sickness and in health means choosing love when there are fewer healthy days than ever, when part of the reason I still fit into this dress is because my body has turned against me and I am wasting away, and when loving and caring for me through a chronic illness {that makes me both unpredictable and limited} is just as hard on him as it is for me to love beyond myself through days and moments of pain.

We are a team. And it isn’t in the big flashy moments, but in the small daily sacrifices of loving beyond our own selves, the mutual commitment of being there for each other in the moments that matter most, that builds the immovable foundation of this heavenly sacrament.

I daresay Peter is leaps and bounds ahead of me in the selflessness part of our relationship. But his self-giving love both makes me better and makes me want to do better.

During our wedding ceremony, one of the readings we chose included Matthew 7:24-25. It reads:

24 “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. 

Many know that the name Peter literally means “rock,” which was especially meaningful when we chose those verses. But in the ten years that have surpassed, all the fluffy sentiments and niceties of this scripture passage have been tried in the furnace of real life, and we have emerged far stronger for it. I count myself both lucky and wise that to have built my house on such a firm, loving, selfless rock. And that has never been truer than today. 

I love you heart and soul, dear Peter - my sure and steady rock. Cheers to ten years, and God willing we will have much more wisdom to share as we celebrate the next forty or so!

Recovery, aka Back To It!

I don't gush enough about my loving husband, so this is mostly an excuse share a couple fun pictures from when he took over parental duties during my recovery from surgery.

Included are pictures of him being the poster boy for stay-home-dad homemaker/homeschooler. Peter definitely inherited his mom's teaching gene, whereas I, decidedly, did not (even though my mom was also a teacher). I think it skipped a generation. I can manage short spurts, but I'm the worst when it comes to buckling down and doing anything - playing, crafting, pretending, tutoring, baking - with our kids for an extended period of time. I work much better away from the kids. Anyway, Peter naturally does a lot of educational stuff with the kids, like managing to rope us into conversations at dinner about anything from current events or physics to geography and the historical significance of a date. When he was little, Peter's mom had these books called "What your ____ Grader Needs to Know" for every grade; big surprise when they started showing up at our door in Amazon packaging so Peter could teach our kids the same. Marie says they're booorrrring but I've caught her reading them on her own a few times, ha. She appears to like the section on art best so far. 

Well, when taking off "work" so I could recover, teacher Peter put me to shame by doing all sorts of fun unschooling-ish stuff with Ethan while I sat on the couch and watched, the most fun being working on currency by playing The Allowance Game. Like, the whole thing, not a cheater version as I would've done.

On top of Ethan-schooling, I watched Peter plow through dishes, laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, and also manage carpool and free time. In a normal day, I only seem to manage about one big chore a day plus dinner. Maybe an occasional load of laundry too. Clearly we know who's the obvious choice in our family for stay-at-home parenthood. He would go for it too, if he weren't the one with all the degrees that make the Gs...

As for me, a few brief updates on my physical recovery for those interested: it's been exactly one month, and all things considered, I'm doing well. I was worried at first because the site of my chronic pain seemed to flare up pretty quickly after the initial anesthesia/meds wore off, but my doctor seemed confident at my post-op that it was likely the internal sutures they had to use because of the larger incision required on that side. I still have a little bit of pain, but it seems to be dissipating gradually - so hopefully that means my doc was right.

I definitely felt older this time in terms of my ability to bounce back. I was pretty exhausted the first two weeks - I overdid it a bit in the beginning, so I tried to slow down a little...but then went to drill a week after the surgery so I wouldn't get too far behind on work. It was an important weekend for me to be there, but that about did me in. I also had a rough go for two weeks with more food/digestive issues (it was a bad, bad day when I accidentally ate something with onions; it seems like my food intolerance reactions are getting exponentially worse) so that made for more exhaustion. But the past two weeks I've been pretty stable - I started a digestive enzyme and have been very, very diligent about taking it with the priobiotic my doctor prescribed and checking ingredients like a hawk, which has seemed to help. I still have a colonoscopy to schedule and look forward to (blerrrrrrrrg) based on my doctor's orders, but until then hopefully I'll be able to keep things stable.

But now for the total good news: starting week three when I was physically up to it, I finally carved out the me time I've been planning for a month or two now and suffered through my first barre class!

I've been looking for some sort of workout that I don't hate (read: anything with running or big weights) that's low-impact enough for my torn-up shoulders and bum knee (thanks gymnastics and diving) BUT still can help me build up my strength and endurance to my glory days - or at least get me out of my current weakling state. Sounds like the unicorn of fitness, right? Back in July though, a friend told me about a barre studio that she loves, and how it helps with core strength and toning and posture while being a good workout. And then I found out said stuido is literally in the same block as another location that I already frequent at least weekly, so I decided to sign up for a class.

And woah, buddy. The first class was a total everything-kicker [no really, like every single muscle group plus secret muscle groups that apparently only crazy barre instructors know about]. But it was so fun and I loved it. I've been to three more classes already, and have worked out my schedule so I can now go twice a week. The exercises are such small but targeted movements that I only had to modify one exercise during the first class because of my surgery and every class since then has been a-okay. Minus the ridiculous hobbling around afterwards because my entire body is in muscle failure. But it's in the best, most fun, total-self-care way possible. I dare you to find a studio and try it so you can say I told you so. I've been surprised at the spectrum of ages I've seen at the studio too - a few people younger than me and also a fair amount who are significantly older than me. (All who could probably kick my derriere-in-training--for now). Alright, enough jabber...but after being in such a long slump, I'm happy to finally feel like a more energized version of me, and that I've committed to something I'm both excited about and proud of myself for doing - all within a month of my surgery. It's good to be back.

I'll end with a fun anecdote: at work this past weekend I told two of my Army reserve girlfriends that I started a barre class. The younger one blurted out "you mean like bartending???" and the older one simultaneously said "like, to be a lawyer?!"

I'm really not sure which once is closest to the complete opposite of who I am...

Trying to look like I'm not dying after my first class.

Yo Adrian, I survived! If you're local and you ever wanna be my barre buddy, let me know!

January In Brief: aka, Eye Can't Even

Or, for some alternate titles of the cinematic kind:

Eyemageddon

Eyepoccolypse Now

The Corneal Games, Round 2.

Lethal Weapon.

Or simply, You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

But first, the more boring/tame stuff.

The start of January saw us rudely thrown back into our [new, even crazier] school and work routine after a nice visit with family. We had one jam-packed drill weekend to pull off a farewell for our Brigade Commander, followed by two separate weeks of star students (both of whom did an amazing job with their star student duties!), and some pretty fantastic Broncos games to keep us busy. January was also good month for getting meetings scheduled and events planned for the mom's at church that I've been helping a friend run. It's resulted in some great new connections. We've also had some nice little moments of family bonding, with a few notable ones initiated by Peter. He's started passing on his love of Calvin and Hobbes...and he recently introduced the kids to the now-infamous concept of Nerf Gun Wars.

Superbowl, here we come!

Now, over the years we've kind of just acquired things like foam pirate swords and plastic Ninja Turtle Nunchucks and light sabers. Somewhere along the line, the Nerf Guns started popping up. I'm not the biggest fan of toy weapons, and multiple times I've had to confiscate the swords after angsty boy fights and put the nunchucks in timeout after they broke a light switch. But with kids, minor damage just comes with the territory, and they've never actually done serious damage. So when Peter came home a few weeks ago brandishing three new Nerf toys, chirping "look what I found on sale!!" I simply groaned and rolled my eyes instead of putting them in a return bag. (I never did think to ask him what he was doing wandering through the toy aisle of Target that day, though, when we only needed milk). Soon, I even became a reluctantly enthusiastic participant of the family Nerf wars Peter started in our room whenever the kids got ready for bed with a few minutes to spare...setting up ambushes, hiding behind pillows, popping out from behind the bed for the perfect shot.

It was during one such evening, two weeks after New Year's, that Peter was supervising bedtime and I was determinedly packing away the nativity set in hopes that our living room would not spend a second full week after the Epiphany buried in all things Christmas. I didn't realize that another Nerf war was underway behind closed doors until Erik came running downstairs, whimpering and trying to re-load his gun. I helped him, then accompanied him back upstairs with the intent to cut the Nerf wars short in time for bed. We carefully ducked into the to the sound of laughter while Nerf darts whizzed everywhere. Sighing, I begrudgingly picked up a spare Nerf gun and joined the fun instead. All was fine for 10 minutes; so fine--and fun, apparently--that Peter decided it would be great to capture the fun on video. In it, you can see me attempting to wrestle the automatic Nerf gun away from Ethan while trying to remind him about muzzle awareness after he kept trying to fire at me from point blank range. (Oh the foreshadowing. And irony). About .5 seconds after Peter stopped filming, he charged over the bed and fired, just as I, unaware, started to turn my head toward him.

Yes, Peter was the culprit, not one of the kids. (He's admitted it to others so I can safely incriminate him here.)

I definitely didn't see the round coming, so I had zero reaction time to duck or even clamp my eyes shut--I simply found myself on the floor very suddenly, covering my left eye while writhing around and yodeling loudly and rather comically. 

But as funny as I sounded, let me tell you--the final pains of childbirth, though more prolonged, have got nothing on the intensity of a dart to the eye at close range. Nothing. Those little devils pack a brutal punch. Only after the feeling that I might simultaneously puke and pass out dissipated was I able to low crawl to the bathroom, and after about five excruciating minutes of deep breathing, painfully pry my eye open to confirm that I could still see. But it was blurry and my eye wouldn't stop watering and hurt like the Sam Hill Dickens...so I knew that I probably shouldn't try to sleep it off or wait it out. 

Being Saturday night, that meant the ER. Which meant reliving more memories of when I was seven and landed in the ER for an almost identical injury. 

I know, right? Like I said, so much irony. When the first incident happened, we lived at West Point, and it was graduation day. It was a tradition (and still is) for little kids to be able to run into the stadium to try and try to grab a cadet hat from the field following the legendary hat toss. While waiting in the holding area for the hat toss, one of my friends and I were playing innocently, holding hands and spinning around. Somehow, her free hand swung in the direction of my face and her fingernail scratched my eye. She was so apologetic, but seconds later the hat toss happened and everyone started running in all directions. And so I stumbled around the field in bleary-eyed pain in the middle of the chaos until I somehow found my dad in the throngs of people. I remember him holding me while I held my eye, talking to and congratulating his cadets until he realized how serious it was. So off to Keller Army Hospital we went (I was a frequent flyer of the Keller ER at that age)--only I didn't want my friend to get in trouble, so I told the adults that it happened when I was swinging my arm and caught myself in the eye instead of saying that it was her hand. Ah, the mind of a 7-year-old.

Anyway, 25 years later I faced a new challenge; though I was now an adult, I still couldn't drive myself to the ER. So I called our amazing friend and next door neighbor who agreed to come sit with the kids so Peter could take drive me. Even more ironic? The very same friend and I had been talking about eye woes earlier that afternoon, and I'd just told her the story of what happened when I was seven. Self-fulfilling prophesy, I suppose...

Somehow, we got the kids in bed and astoundingly, we were in and out of the (somewhat busy) ER in under an hour. I didn't even know that was humanly possible! They confirmed that there was a scratch on my cornea, prescribed some antibiotic ointment, and said it would be sore from the impact but should heal just fine within a week. It was still quite sore through mid-week, but now 10 days later, I'm thoroughly back to normal. I didn't even have to wear a pirate patch like I did when I was little! We heard plenty of entertaining Nerf stories from the ER staff and friends the rest of the week, along with recommendations to wear plastic glasses or ski goggles while warring. Which would've been a great thing to consider before getting my eye shot out. Hindsight, I guess (pun intended). But I still don't know if I'll ever be ready to un-ban Nerf guns from our home, since I can't even blame age or immaturity!

While probing my shot eye, the ER doc got
frustrated that I couldn't keep it open and
actually asked, "why do you keep blinking?"

I did let the real perpetrator take the blame this time, and thankfully he didn't get in trouble with anyone except his own guilty conscience. He spent the rest of the week buying flowers and trying to make it up to me, even though I did remind him that accidents happen. But I didn't actively discourage the groveling, either.

Epilogue:

Before the incident, Peter had booked us some tickets to the yearly Knights of Columbus Gala that our church holds. Whether through genuine thoughtfulness or a nagging feeling that he might need to redeem himself for some reason, Peter had decided to make it a little getaway; he said I should get myself a dress and he booked us a room at the hotel, arranging for the kids to stay overnight at his parents' house. So by the time the eye injury occurred, I at least had something to look forward to. (More puns. So many puns!).

I had a follow-up for my eye the day before the gala, confirming that I still had 20/20 vision (whew!) and clearing me to wear eye makeup again (double whew!). The event itself was loads of fun and I think we'll be frequenting it yearly from here on out; there was a charity auction to raise money for the poorest region in our state, as well as a lovely dinner and some dancing. 

One of the coolest auction items: this painting
of the very area we raised money for, painted
in real time by our incredibly talented friend.

Sadly we were outbidded for the handcrafted custom-order farmhouse table we had our eyes on (one of our friends/parish members does some jaw-dropping work, including the beautiful wooden kayaks used at our church campouts, and the table up for bid was very similar to amazing one by Clint from Fixer Upper). But we did score some symphony tickets to thank Peter's parents for all that they do. And the table-making friend told us we could always commission him for our own project if we ever want to. I all I had to do was give Peter a puppy dog look and point woefully to my eye to seal the deal... (just kidding. But who can honestly turn down the chance for a custom table?).

Overall, it was a great night, and the perfect way to close out January--eyesores and all.

Wink.

All's well that ends well!