Yesterday was one of those days in which nothing goes to plan. I need to renew my drivers' license this week. Anyway, as it turns out, for a girl who believes in gender equality as much as I do, it was surprising to discover that I have my name on nothing. Car? It was his before we got married. Medical bills? George, since it's his insurance. Rental contract? Him again. Utilities, banks, blah blah blah wikiwiki...everything's in his name. Do not ask how this happened; I do not know. But it's a problem if you're trying to renew your license in a new state, because unless my name's on the same paper as my address, I don't exist and I'm probably planning on robbing someone and eating their pets. So I had to go back home, dig out all our files, and bury our hallway in loose papers looking for something--anything--with my name on it. *grumble*
One of the first things I pulled out was our treasure box. You know that box you've got somewhere in your house? The one with the stacks of old photos, your extra wedding invitations, old birthday cards, a few albums, and...um, a pair of earrings? (Yesss.) Ours also has a folder inside with passports, social security cards, marriage license, diploma, etc. Anyway, the birth certificate I was looking for wasn't in there (Mom had it and overnighted it to me--go Mom! You rock!), but I got stuck on our wedding guest book.
Aw, Lisa signed her maiden name. That was before she was married. Look, there's Bill's name! He's passed away since then; kinda makes him feel a little closer seeing the spot he scrawled his name...and Mindy only wrote one of her kids' names down. That wasn't before the little one was born, was it? It was just such a cool experience having that moment in time captured. I never thought a guest book would be so significant. Honestly, when I bought it, I only did it because it was on clearance and that's what you do. So glad I did.
Then there were all those pictures George took in college. Oh my goodness.
A card of congratulations from our childbirth class. We were the first ones in the class to have our baby, and it happened the day after our 9th of 12 classes. We didn't tell anyone. We just showed up the next week with a baby. You shoulda seen their faces.
Then there was this picture of me hugging George at his Masters' hooding ceremony. He's all decked out in academic regalia, education-blue, and he's absolutely beaming at the camera. He's got his arms around me, and I don't think I realized someone was taking a picture. One of those laughter-caught-on-camera moments. Perfect.
A snapshot of us on our first anniversary at The Melting Pot in Cleveland, taken by our fantastic server. I remember feeling overwhelmingly and depressingly fat that night, since I was about ten weeks postpartum. Looking at it now, though, I realize I looked like a woman. I'd lost my teenage-y look. Not fat. Grown up. Big difference.
Going through a box full of great moments is a refreshing experience, especially when you feel like life is a little bleak. But I had to ask myself, why is this all in a box in a closet I never open? What is the reason for me even keeping all this if I can't have the experience of looking at them every day?
We have a few more pictures on the fridge today.
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