"Sing me a song, babe."
He says that to me, nearly every night of our lives. He lays his head on my lap so I can scratch his back. I sing quietly so no one else can hear. Only him. I don't sing for anyone but him.
Depending on what I sing, sometimes he chimes in. Sometimes when I think he's fallen asleep and I quietly finish my song, he'll start singing his.
I wanna live with a cinnamon girl
I could be happy the rest of my life
With a cinnamon girl.
A dreamer of pictures I run in the night
You see us together, chasing the moonlight,
My cinnamon girl.
"You love cinnamon!" he reminds me. "It's your favorite."
It's true. It is my favorite. He knows. It makes me laugh that he reminds me.
(Note: I don't think I was what the song writers had in mind. Just saying)
Sometimes we talk late into the night about what our retirement will look like. What the kids will end up being when they grow up. If the kids will ever move out (okay, he is mostly the one that asks that, not me). We talk about the cabin in the woods we want to build one day, about the hikes we'll take together. We talk about how quiet it will be. How peaceful. We talk about Ginger and what a good girl she is. How we will feel when she isn't part of our lives anymore. We talk about our careers and what we'll do next. Where we want to live, where we want to travel. Sometimes our whole world feels very big.
A lot of times, though, our whole world is so very small. It's full of "How was your day?" and "What do you want for dinner?" and "Do you have Zumba tonight?" and "Who is working?". The other night we were bantering back and forth as a family, as we do, and Jason smiled in a very satisfied way and said, "I love how we tolerate each other."
I was almost a little insulted, but the more I thought about it the funnier it was.
I wanna tolerate you forever, babe.
I'm glad you picked me and I picked you, fourteen years ago today. I love every adventure we've had, even the crap ones.
I'm glad I get to have this life with you.
It's so delightfully tolerable.