11

Tomorrow, my husband and I will celebrate 11 years of marriage. Wow. It seems like just yesterday that we posed for this photo. All bright-eyed and innocent, with the dark and threatening clouds in the background that later dumped rain and forced us to have our outdoor reception inside.

Sometimes, A and I will talk about different choices we've made along the way—what if we had chosen a different neighborhood to live in, what if he had chosen a different major, what if we had waited longer to have kids (that one gets a lot of discussion). But deep down, I know that we made the best possible choices for us and our family. And even though life is crazy at times, I really don't think I'd have it any other way. (Well, I might choose to have more obedient children, but that's a blog post for a different day.)

Last week, my mom brought my wedding dress out to me. She's been storing it for the last 11 years and decided it was my turn. I ran it up to my bedroom, almost giddy with excitement to try it on. After all, I'm the same size I was then. It should fit, right? Sadly, no. My husband zipped it up, but only got halfway up my ribcage.

As I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought about the girl who got married 11 years ago and the woman she's become now. At the life my husband and I have built, the family we've created, and the future we're working toward. It's messy and loud and often exasperating.

Yep, it's still about only half zipped up. Half-done. Not completed yet. And that's just as it should be.