Twue Wove

It would seem that most of my writings the past year and a half have had something to do with my baby. She is certainly a word-worthy subject, not to mention cute as all get out, but before her baby blue eyes came into my life there was someone with hazel eyes that I was, and remain, quite fond of. Well, he says his eyes are green. They’re not. But I digress.
 
Over the past few months I have had many ideas for posts about marriage and even started writing several, but I usually put them aside for fear of entering the realm of cheese. If this post crosses over I can only hope that you remain lactose tolerant, and if not, you need go no further.
 
My husband works incredibly hard. In fact, even when he is home, he is rarely ever not working or taking time for himself. Of course there is his doctoral program. 60 hours a week in the lab his second year seemed wonderfully light in comparison to his first year here, when he could finally stop studying at midnight. And then, of course, we became that crazy Caltech couple who had a baby before the second year even began. He balances his work and family life excellently, keeping the respect (and humor) of his peers and professors, as well as keeping his wife sane and loved.
 
So now, after a long day in the lab, sometimes with a night of grading or homework or reading ahead, Peter walks in the door ready to romp around with his nine month old daughter. I saw enough of him around kids before we were married to trust that he would make a good dad, but he has far exceeded that trust. He is loving and eager to be involved, both in her life and also in the decisions we make for her. He is actively aware of how and what she is doing, and I never have to be alone in making parenting decisions.
 

And, of course, he is my husband and best friend. The past two years he has been studying Chemical Engineering and Kara Rapp, and is quite the genius in both subjects.  Our wedding day was not the best day of my life, but the start of the best days of our life together. A life in which both roses and changing dirty diapers are romantic gestures.

It’s amazing to think that the only reason I met this man was because of a “random” last minute decision my dad made to visit a church an hour away one random Sunday my freshman year of college. But that is another story for another post. To sum it all, I am happy to be Mrs. Peter Rapp. I took on his identity, name, bank account (or promise of one), potential offspring and etc. 23 months ago, and he makes me glad of it every day.

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