As the husband and I get closer to our five-year wedding anniversary I have been feeling rather nostalgic about our relationship over the past eight years. I never thought I would fall in love with someone with a child, never thought I would be the dreaded “stepmom,” and never thought I would one day be arguing over the cleanliness of a teenager’s bedroom.
When I met my husband I had recently gotten out of an unhealthy relationship and had gone on to reinvent myself as a strong independent woman in charge of her own destiny. I had my own apartment, I exercised religiously, I ate consistently, I lost 30 pounds, I had my own schedule, and I made my own rules. Sometimes I still miss that independence. If I wanted to get up at 3 a.m., make a bowl of pasta, sit on my couch in my underwear, t-shirt and socks, and watch Chocolat over and over again, well I just did it. There was no one to question me. The day I moved out of that apartment and in with my future husband, I cried. I sat in the middle of my empty bedroom and sobbed like there was no tomorrow. I knew that part of my life was over and I knew I was going to miss it. I was embarking on a strange new adventure, and frankly, it scared the hell out of me.
This article appears in Feb 10-16, 2010.