It was December 1998. We were 23 years old, both of us. We attended each other's work Christmas parties as friends. That's why we were at the Baltimore Harbor in December. It was really warm, unseasonably so. We walked a long time. We came to the Maryland Science Center there at the Harbor and stood gawking at a ridiculously life-sized looking dinosaur. It had qualities of the Brontosaurus. It was enormous. Somewhere between the minutes of looking at that dinosaur, making small talk about something prehistoric, we realized that we didn't want to leave.
____________________________________________
I was trying to figure out my budget and having a hard time understanding why all the dollars didn't add up. We were only dating. You asked me my salary and I hesitated. I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to know how little I made. But I trusted you and I told you. You didn't hesitate. You scratched out a budget for me on paper, never being cruel or condescending, always hopeful. From that moment, I trusted you.
____________________________________________
You told me about how you lost your toe. The lawn mower, the scary hospital visit, the whole story. I still couldn't bring myself to look at it, afraid it might still look raw. We were talking in my parents' kitchen and the family labrador sauntered in and began licking your toe. The one toe. That stupid toe that I didn't want to look at. But I did. It wasn't that bad. Just the toenail was gone, really. You laughed.
____________________________________________
We were going to visit your family in Iowa. You told me about your sister and your mom and your dad. We flew out before the Fourth of July. Before we landed you showed me your family picture and I laughed. "You never told me your sister was adopted," I said, looking at a woman who was clearly asian. "I didn't? Hmmm. Well, she's my sister so I didn't think of it." I loved you even more.
____________________________________________
The winter we were unemployed was the roughest one ever. The winter seemed twice as long and twice as cold. There was no relief. We were tired. But I watched you with such grace and strength and perseverance. I have never respected you more. Such a man.
____________________________________________
I gave birth in the wee hours of an October morning. I had written you off as being an involved father. You were not involved in the pregnancy at all. You seemed scared and appalled. When Morgan was born, something clicked in you. You were instantly protective. Your voice cracked. You were elated. I was relieved. We would be a family.
____________________________________________
We were on our way to the fertility clinic, so weary. My heart was too heavy to pray so my prayer was this: "Spoil me, God." The procedure worked and we were expecting. I was barfing all over the place, in neighbors' lawns and in our house. Everywhere. So sick from the pregnancy. Happy, but sick.
We had two children. One conceived in unplanning and one conceived in a petri dish. What a story. But it doesn't matter now because they are here.
____________________________________________
____________________________________________
It was December 1999. You were nervous. I was cold. We were at the Baltimore Harbor again, walking in the frigid wind. You were scanning the Harbor, looking for the dinosaur. It was bigger than a semi-truck. How could it move? The dinosaur was not there. The place where we fell in love. You looked around frantically with the ring in your pocket and seeing how cold I was, you just went with the moment. You said "Will you?" and I wept. The dinosaur was a no-show, but we found love anyway. Two friends, starting a life together.
