Eleven years. We’ve been going to that beautiful place to camp and vacation for eleven years. M and I first went there when our oldest daughter had just turned two. We slept in a tent on the water. We were happy enough, hanging out with family and friends.
For ten years, I welcomed the idea of sleeping with a child between us or in separate beds when we upgraded to campers. M and I got along and worked together to accomplish many things, but we often had separate agendas. It sort of felt like a vacation from some of the pressures of our relationship.
How horrible is that? There was no sexual tension, never any sex at all. He could do his own thing and I could do mine, to an extent. We could coexist without all that pressure. It often felt like there was something missing.
Last year, things really began to change. I was more patient and caring. I was much more cognizant of how my behavior affected M and the girls. My goal was to be there, live in the moment, and see him happy. To feel him relax. To make his life a little easier. To enjoy my family. It felt wonderful.
This year, our eyes roamed the campsites to find the other and when they locked, there was always a smile (or inappropriate gesture). Sometimes those looks told the other something, no words needed. There were touches and hand holding and hugs and kisses. There was one making sure the other was nearby, included, sought out. There was one of us seated next to the other, nestled in, the heat of the fire and millions of stars. There was still me submitting and serving, him leading. There were guiding and loving words, sometimes even reminders. There was a mutual appreciation of the beauty of that place. We slept in the same bed. There was even sex.
For the first time in eleven years, we were so happy, we couldn’t contain it.
Now, we’re heading home. No matter where we are, I hope it’s never able to be contained again.