If you ask me what my favourite number is, I’ll tell you that it’s a multiple of 3. Usually, I plump for 12, but there’s a reason why I always live in homes whose numbers equate to a multiple of 3.
So the fact that our family turns 6 years old today is, ultimately, a very big thing to me. It’s a comfort and a delight, that started with baked goods and breaking first date rules. Oh and, of course, the post-it note, but you knew that already.
The scary thing is – this was the year that I thought would break us. At the end of last year, as we celebrated our anniversary in the midsts of moving house, changing schools and all of the craziness that went through it, I got a little scared. Generally, when you change everything about your environment, things change within you too. I have changed, you have changed, the kid in the middle of us has changed the most… but, they are good changes, and not the one I secretly feared at 2am when I couldn’t sleep. The thing is, this is the sixth year and, as it turns out – it’s been my favourite one so far.
Fast forward from five to six years in, and I’m so very aware of all the transformations our family has gone through. We’re a two dog household. We operate our lives from a place of convenience and closeness. Our routines are solid, set and sweet.
We’re even more of a team than we have ever been.
This year was tough on me for a lot of reasons, but they had to happen. The single constant that has allowed me to cling to it, has been this. This funny space where you and I meet at unheavenly hours because the dogs woke us/there’s a noise outside/I can’t sleep/you just got home. The parts where I’m bleary-eyed and hate everything. The bits where you’re being brilliant and I feel like I’m failing.
You never let me fail though – to you, I am perfectly imperfect. And yes, that includes being clueless and muddling up the lunch boxes or forgetting to cook dinner. When I panic over stupid stuff and you’re my easygoing partner in it. Between Excel spreadsheets, losing my house keys or the tell tale crash from the kitchen as I accidentally smash yet another mug to the floor. Between the noise of our days and the quiet snoozing of the nights (if we’re lucky. LOL). From my experimental cooking that scars me (haha!) to my pleas for you to just bring home takeout. Between the silly conversations and the serious talks. The parts where you let me be me, and then I come running because I just need a reminder that it’s all good. To loving each other, and to loving (or loathing!) things together.
To the every morning kiss-you-goodbye for the day, to the times where I mumble something at you when you get home late.
It’s been six years, baby. I guess we’re growing up.
Love and lunchboxes,
Me.