As cheeseballs as it sounds, it started with a kiss. Six years ago and six days ago. Six years ago when we first met, and six days ago, when you kissed me and gave me your plague cooties.
Despite the fact that my chest feels like it wants to explode, and I’m convinced if I cough any harder, a baby will pop out instead of a lung. Despite the shortness of breath and massive headache and wheezing I’m currently doing – that kiss was worth it. Both the one six days and six years ago.
I know when we argue I tell you I wish I’d never met you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I can’t picture NOT having you. In fact, that thought scares me often.
I don’t regret meeting you, I don’t regret the child we conceived six years ago, to this very day. Nor do I regret the one I’m pregnant with, today. If two babies is what it takes to be on the receiving end of such love, I consider myself lucky. Instead of being alone, like I always thought I would be, I will have three amazing men in my life. One partner, two gorgeous sons.
You’re selfless, caring, generous, protective and utterly loyal. You force me to be a better person and you don’t accept any of my bullshit, ever. I know things are not easy between us, and that we’re a volatile mix, but I couldn’t accept anything less. I need someone firm to love me. I need someone who can stand up to me. Someone I can’t walk all over. Someone who keeps me on my toes. Someone who makes me feel safe. Loved. Protected.
You give me all that, and more. I don’t need a valentine’s day to tell me I’m loved.
You show me every day.