|sunset over the Currituck Sound|
This past weekend we laughed, we cried, we relaxed, we reminisced, and we tried to enjoy a last trip of just the two of us (for a while, at least) because we hear that once children are involved, vacations are never quite the same again.
Even though it's taken longer to have children than we had hoped, I'll never regret these nine plus years of marriage that Brad and I have had alone together. We've run marathons and dined at fine restaurants. We went to Europe and traveled to countless other places. We've been hermits, and on the flip side, too social at times for our taste. We've started a married book club (kind of) and bought a house. I've earned my Ph.D. and Brad has advanced in his career. We love each other more and communicate better than we did nine years ago.
Of course we are both thrilled to welcome a son or daughter in about ten weeks, Lord willing. Our structured and orderly lives (and home) will quickly become a distant memory, and that's just fine with us. I know that we'll be okay. But fear is clouding my perspective and I'm feeling a bit nostalgic. Why is it that when something new is on the horizon, even a fabulous something new, you just want to curl up and cling to what's familiar?