The breeze off the ocean is chilly after sunset, so we wear sweatshirts and snuggle close to each other. The beach is nearly empty except for us—me, and my husband. The annual Perseid meteor shower coincided perfectly with our wedding and our honeymoon to Maine, and tonight the sky is clear. We sit on the blanket we carried over from our rental apartment, facing the horizon, watching and waiting. The waves are barely visible ahead of us, but their steadfast rhythm tells us they’re still there. A shooting star dashes across the sky, straight ahead. My husband and I share this moment together, just the two of us, and like a vibrant meteor it is stunningly, impossibly perfect.

*

The phone rings, and I feel a tense lump forming between my heart and my stomach. I don’t have to answer it to know who’s calling and why, but I answer it anyway.

“Nana died,” my mom says. Her words announce the end of my grandmother’s final hospital stay, the end of two weeks of daily updates and glimmers of false hope, the end of a vibrant life that brought so much joy to mine. The lump in my chest wants to burst, to scream, to protest the finality of death, but all I can do is hang up the phone and look over at my husband. 

“Nana died,” I repeat, though I can see in his face that he already knows. He nods and squeezes my hand and pulls me towards him, catching me as I shatter like a seashell tossed against the rocky shore. His embrace is a warm, safe place. Grief leaves my body in desperate sobs. He holds me, 

holds me, 

holds me.

*

I barely get a look at my son’s face before the nurse places him on my waiting chest. We were only separated for a few minutes—just long enough for the medical team to make sure the vacuum instrument hadn’t done any serious harm—but it felt like hours. Now his warm little body is right where it belongs, snuggled against mine. I rest my head on the hospital pillows, exhausted and depleted, but wholly content. My husband stands next to me, fascinated by the new little person blowing bubbles on my chest. He places his hand on Walter’s tiny back. “He’s so soft,” my husband says. 

Our baby is soft and stunningly perfect, and we are mom and dad.

*

My daughter is twelve hours old. I can’t stop staring at her little face peeking out from under the colorful knit beanie she got from the hospital nursery. My husband comes back into the room, leading our two-year-old by the hand. It’s our son’s first day as a big brother. He glances tentatively around at the unfamiliar space before his eyes settle on the baby sleeping peacefully in the bassinet. “Phoebe came out now,” he says, and I feel like I could burst. Walter makes his way into the room, more curious than eager, but ready to meet his little sister. 

*

It’s almost 10:30 p.m. My husband went for a drive after yet another challenging evening of parenting, and he isn’t home yet. The toddler and the baby are both asleep in their rooms, and I’m alone on the living room couch. I type the start of a text message, delete it, and start again. Then again. Finally, I simply ask, Are you coming home?

He responds almost immediately. Yeah, I’ll be home in about 30 minutes.

I turn on the TV while I wait for the sound of his truck in the driveway. He drives a black Toyota Tacoma—a bigger and more reliable version of the one he drove in high school. The old Tacoma rattled over bumps, struggled through snow and ice, and occasionally sputtered when it should have started. It was old, but it served us well enough as we went to all the places high school sweethearts go. It was in that truck that we first dared to dip our toes in the sea of questions about what would become of us after high school. I planned to go to college. I wanted a family. He dreamed of being a musician. I hoped we would find a way forward together, but I was terrified the pull of separate paths might be too much for us to bear.

I hear the garage door open. He’s home. He finds me on the couch and for a moment we just look at each other. His presence is steady and steadfast, like the tide.

*

I knew this meltdown was coming as soon as I realized my son’s bag of Sour Patch Kids was accidentally thrown out. My son dissolves into desperate wails, begging me to get it back. I hug him and tell him I understand. I tell him it’s okay to be sad, it’s okay to be angry, it’s okay to cry. My husband holds up his phone for me to see a typed message: They sell Sour Patch at CVS. He asks if he should go get some, and I agree. There will be plenty of opportunities to let our son feel disappointment and practice resilience. Tonight, we decide to rescue him from this injustice. My husband slips out while I sit on the floor, holding our distraught child in my lap.

The tears have nearly stopped by the time my husband returns. Delight flashes like a meteor across Walter’s face when he sees what Daddy brought home: not one, but two bags of Sour Patch Kids. They sit together at the kitchen table and try the different flavors. I stand back and watch, letting this moment be just for the two of them.

*

Both children are calm, quiet, and confined to their beds, even though they’re not yet fully asleep. I stand at the kitchen sink, rinsing the day’s dirty plates, sippy cups, coffee mugs before I put them in the dishwasher. My husband is in the living room, putting books back on the shelf and toys back in their cubbies. When the living room floor is visible again, he joins me in the kitchen and pulls me into a hug. Parenting a three-year-old and a one-year-old is depleting, even on the easier days.

We’ve come a long way since that night on the beach, and the night I waited on the living room couch. Our rhythm as husband and wife is different now that we also wear the titles of mom and dad. We’re still finding our way through each new season. But the moments I hold most dear remind me that our love is always the gravity between us, holding us together. The sea is a constant against the shore, even when it seems to retreat, and each low tide leaves new treasures in the sand. These moments are like shooting stars—stunning, and perfectly ours.

*

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Ours”.