July 3, 2000 -- 11:04 PM EST

Paul had to work really late on Thursday night and didn't come home until well past midnight. I had gone to bed already after leaving him a letter taped to the front door because we hadn't been seeing much of each other lately and I missed him. Without getting too involved in what I wrote to my husband, I'll sum it up with the first and the last two sentences of that letter:

Today I realized I have spent a quarter of my life looking into your face. When I am 36 years and one day old, I will have been looking at your face for more than half my life. I really like that.

We've been spending the long weekend totally wrapped up in our home, our yard, ourselves, and each other.

When we ate pizza and watched movies, he alternated holding my hand with kicking me.

When we were out bike riding, he'd pull up along side of me and make outrageous suggestions about getting naked and screwing around in abandoned playground tube slides.

When we painted the kitchen pale blue he laughed at me, pointed with a paint roller and refused to help me down when I got stuck on the counters with height-induced vertigo after I masked off the ceiling trimwork.

When I collected fallen branches ffrom the camphor tree in the yard he blew me kisses while trying to run me down with the lawn mower.

This morning, when we woke up, we spent a good 15 or 20 minutes fighting over the blankets playing cave. He said his cave was better than mine because his had quilt colors. Mine was merely navy blue.

I think he's a blanket cave snob.

~Astrophe