Romance

I used to love romantic movies. I used to curl up on my couch most nights in my little apartments (I lived in many) and sigh between bites of ice cream and dream of what kind of love would find me. I just knew it would be wonderful.
We would have a wonderful courting relationship...Do you see us there in the park? Soft sunset behind us, turning my hair into a halo of soft curls (in my daydreams my hair is curly...and a shade of red) and making me irresistible to the man?
Next we would have an unforgettable wedding where everything would go off without a hitch...Do you see us dancing on a cloud?
Our honeymoon would be somewhere fun, but romantic and would last for months...Do you see us laughing and playing in the surf, totally in love?
Our years of marriage would be pure bliss. I would naturally and seamlessly step into my role as wife...See me? Holding out a spoon for him to taste the sauce for the feast I've prepared?
Next, after just exactly the right amount of time, we would have children and would have no need for adjustment at all. See us? Smiling over our newborn twins? Do you see that I delivered them with no help or painkiller in just a few hours and, no, I'm not even a little sweaty, nor is my hair mussed.
Ah. What a life.
I worked at a bank during this daydreaming time and would often encourage my male customers to surprise their wives with flowers.
One co-worker of mine didn't share my romantic flare for everything and once put her arm around me and said, "You will learn, my dear, that true romance is when your husband gets up with the crying baby in the middle of the night so you can sleep!"
I inwardly shook my head and thought she just didn't understand. I felt so sorry for her.
Now, I can hardly stomach a romantic movie. Unless it was made before 1960. There may not be color in many of my favorite flicks, but there is depth of character and analog and intricate story lines.
Butterflies no longer assail my senses when a leading man takes his liberties.
Until yesterday.
The set-up was predictable. A young, beautiful lady. Sparkling blue eyes. A rough, but tender male, with eyes only for her.
He serenades her.
She bashfully lowers her lashes while her cheeks bloom a soft pink.
He lowers his head to meet her gaze and their eyes lock in mutual affection.
Embarrassed and unsure of her strong feelings for him, she turns from his piercing gaze and nonchalantly licks her paw...
Sigh. Yes, the most romantic movie I watch these days is FB's new favorite, The Aristocats.
Yesterday, she jumped up and down when Thomas O'Malley (O'Malley, the alley cat) came on scene, shouting, "Daddy! Daddy!" While courting Dutchess, she clapped and said, "Mommy!" Pointing eagerly for me to see.
All of my preconceived notions years ago pale in comparison to what my daughter so innocently connected. Thomas loves Dutchess. Daddy loves Mommy. One in the same.
I felt like a true damsel. And I saw no sign or need for distress.
I've learned over the years that my coworker was right about her views on romance. I tried it my way. I dated a few romantics and was swept away on a cloud.
But all of that meant nothing.
My true hero takes care of the girls when I'm too tired to take another step.
He goes shopping when I'm too sick and we need milk.
He dances with me in the kitchen.
He laughingly pulls me into the pantry for a secret kiss while the girls are distracted in the next room.
And as of last Wednesday, he arranges for a babysitter, then calls to ask me on a date.
Tonight.
I am so blessed and so thankful for whom God planned for me. And that he isn't anything like I imagined or hoped.
He's so much more.