During a photoshoot this afternoon when my model slipped into a store to change, I whipped my phone out and sent this to my main man Andrew (whose main man is Max, as Max would like to tell you): "Chickfila Picnic at the Park?". I had barbecue chicken in the crockpot and I knew both of our kids were naked, but it was seventy and sunny and, forty-five minutes later, I pulled up to a park full of people with two bags full of chicken and fries, two lemonades, and an apple juice. Andrew arrived at the park less than two minutes behind me, opened up the doors to our newest hand-me-down vehicle, and let out Max, then the dog, and then walked up to me carrying Henry as I spread food out over a blanket and we grinned like fifth graders who had just written their names in black sharpie on the bottom of the elementary school slide.
One thing I never thought about when I thought about building my life with someone was that I was actually building my life with someone. My life is so intertwined with Andrew's that I don't know where mine starts and where his begins. I mean, I know who I am and he knows who he is but so much of our lives are "ours" and not mine and yours. Sure, he is in school and I am still busting my butt trying to make it an a field that's busy twisting and turning everytime a new DSLR is announced, but practically everything else is ours.
Our children. Our home. Our afternoon. Our date night. Our love. Our family photographs. Our cars. Our hopes. Our dreams. Our future plans. Our support of one another. Our favorite pillow that we battle over. Our first year of marriage. Our book collection. Our late nights. Our last minute picnic the first day of real spring.
"Our". It's a beautiful word, isn't it?
(Also, it looks really weird after writing it so many times.)