The WP prompter asked:
What does love mean to you?
Nine years ago, this week, I met a man as I
staggered stood outside a nightclub waiting for my plastered very nice friend to return with the coat she had carelessly abandoned unfortunately misplaced.
She attempted to drag me away from the stranger danger, but I had fallen into his eyes, been sucked into his heart and had begun the fusion of our two lost souls during her short absence.
But that’s not what love means to me.
We kissed. There were fireworks. I slept a mere two hours, then paced the floor for two more, while I waited for his call.
He simultaneously wore footprints into his carpet, until he could wait no more.
Neither is that, what love means to me.
We met a few hours later. We held hands and we talked and talked.
Three years younger than me, he had already decided, he did not want children. I had three.
He had no intention of marriage. Not in his lifetime. He instead had his eye on a Porsche on return to his homeland, Germany. Which would be in a years time.
I felt free. I didn’t need a man. In my bed or holding my hand. The world was my oyster. I had good friends. A happy life.
We smiled and we talked and we kissed again.
After about six weeks, due to work commitments, we couldn’t see each other for a week. We were devastated and had then the first of many, “We need to stop this, this is insanity!” discussions.
Apparently, both completely bonkers, we continued and a lucky opportunity meant his contract was extended for a year.
We decided we’d enjoy our moment.
Some of the moments became sad. We didn’t want to leave each others arms at night, when my children would return.
Some tears were shed.
OK. OK. Only mine. (But he was sad).
And now I’m coming to the love bit…
We had another, “We need to split or be certified…” discussion. But this time it ended differently.
It went something like this: “…split or be certified or get married.”
And I snogged his face off and said, “Yes, yes, yes!!!”
But now for the real love bit.
We married and he answered with four yes’s.
We packed up our flats and moved to Germany. I left most of my belongings behind. But I took all three children.
He agreed to full financial responsibility for my children. He agreed to full emotional responsibility for my children. (And even worse, he agreed to full emotional responsibility for me) (I blame his youth and inexperience).
We bought him a matchbox Porsche. He spoilt us with furniture, toys and an abundance of shoes.
And there’s more.
He attends parent evenings, even though he hates them.
He babysits when I want to go out with my friends, or fly to Scotland for a wedding.
He worries about university fees.
He cooks after a full days work, when I’m having a bad day. Without even a tut of a complaint.
He laughs at my jokes.
He agreed to giving me my longed for fourth child.
He searched high and low for a pink watch for my son for his fourth birthday, because he really wanted a pink watch, and no one else wanted to indulge that fantasy. (Except for me).
He’s taken the kicks, the comparisons to daddy, the tantrums, the mania, the depressions and the frustrations of an ADHD boy. And still comes back for more.
He strides through hormonal outbursts.
He even cleans the loo.
That, my friends, is what love means to me.