"When I'm big like Papa, I'm going to be a daddy," my three year old proclaims at the table. "Oh how many kids will you have?" I smile at my innocent one. "Eleven" (I'm not sure if he means seven or eleven because they sound almost identical), he confidently responds. "What will you name them?" "Abby, Joshua, Jude (which sounds like Dude), and Eli." "And the rest of them, what are their names?" "I don't know yet." Part of me feels like this day will never come: the potty training that has already taken a year and a half, the fits, the monotonous buckles of the carseat. Yet the other part cringes knowing that all too soon, he will leave. Hopefully he will leave a man of valior, love, and faith, but no longer my innocent joyful child who runs into my room in the morning to tell me the sun is up. Already the thought makes my heart ache and leaves me praying that God will give me the grace to let him go. Will he be ready to be a daddy of eleven? Will he be ready to be a husband?
I was only eighteen when I first meet my love; he was only twenty-one. Eight months later we danced our first dance as a couple. From our first date until our first day as a married couple was only eleven months. We certainly didn't give anyone much time to adjust to us, to the letting go. We were so young. Yet I can't imagine my life any other way. This journey with Chad has been so exciting and filled with love. I can only imagine the feelings our parents had when they first realized that I was going to marry Chad. I've already imagined what it will be like to see my men leave and become husbands and fathers. I pray that I'll have the grace that was given to me by my parents to love me and let me go.
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