Half Life

Last night in bed, Darwin was telling me about a discussion he'd had in the car with Julia (12) and Jack (7) about why Isabel (9) was being so moody lately.

Julia: "I think it's because she's getting older."
Jack: "I think it's because she's a chicken sandwich."

I laughed myself stupid over this, and every time I stopped, the phrase "chicken sandwich" would pop up in my head again, and I'd start shaking again.

And suddenly, in the midst of my laughter, I remembered that it was our half life. Actually, that I'd forgotten our half life -- on Sept. 16/17, Darwin and I (and family) were on vacation and not remembering that 18 years earlier, we'd started dating, two weeks after we met. So we've known each other for half of our 36 years.

"We missed our half life!" I said to Darwin as we huddled under our feather comforter against the chill breeze blowing in the perpetually open window. "Have we really known each other 18 years? That seems like a really long time somehow. How is that possible? Let's see -- we've been married almost 15 years; Eleanor is 13... Oh my gosh, we are so old." I pondered for a moment. "We really ought to have sex in honor of the occasion, but my toes are cold."

"We ought to have sex, but your toes are too cold," Darwin murmured, mostly sleepily. "Some excuse."

"Also, the cats are stupid, and there are two boys in the crib."

"Well, I guess that's not going in the blog post."

"Only if we don't have sex. And there's a cat on my pillow."

The cat judged me.

Darwin dropped off to sleep, after we'd realized again that there is no ideal position for two people who want to snuggle, because, perhaps to remind us that true happiness is only found in heaven, an elbow or an arm or a knee was always jabbing in the wrong place. I stayed awake a little longer, offering prayers of gratitude for 18 years of companionship, and every now and then trying to stifle my laughter at the chicken sandwich.