It had been a ten-hour work day with three different clients and a project deadline not yet met. Jeb was still a little sick – no school – and by 8:30pm, after tucking his runny nose into bed, I was spent.

I crafted the apologetic email to my client explaining that I had done my best, but would not be able to finish the assignment for a few more days. This isn’t usually my style, but in the moment, my well was dry. It seemed the most respectful thing to do for the project was to pause, rather than push on through, sloppily. And it seemed the most loving thing to do for myself was rest.

But I think it was more like a collapse. Feeling all-but-sexy, the ugly harbinger to the end of the honeymoon, I slumped into the chair the Bohemian had pulled up for me. The kitchen was spotless, the dishes sparkling. He’d set up some snacks at the table, poured me a tall glass of water with lemon, and had lit one candle.

With a smile he looked at me, light and happy. “So, tell me.”

Settling down for the first time all day, and in the midst of such care, I dissolved. Gushed and emoted. Laughed a little. Wondered if all of me was just too much. I searched his eyes for signs of flight. But he only looked more steady, unphased.

Was that it?

I nodded, smiled. Yes, I was done. Thank you.

“That was easy,” he says.

Having cleared my emotional system a bit, I mentioned not having met my project deadline.

And like a boxing coach in the corner of the ring, he gave the eighth round pep talk.

“You’ve got to finish it. Come on. Just two more hours. You can do it.”

His simple confidence was enough to make the task seem doable. I reopened spreadsheets and he brought dark chocolate to my desk. While I worked, (this time I noticed there was a continual smile on my face while I did so) he folded two loads of laundry by my side, whistling and humming all the while.

With ease and a newfound enjoyment in the process, I completed the project and met the deadline within an hour’s time. What had felt like a daunting, impossible task, had been transformed into something easy. Just like that.

Finally readying for bed, I moved to the laundry, all folded into perfectly stacked piles. Shirts and pants and socks were tucked with clear precision, but not in a rigid way. What emanated from the creases of Jeb’s little jeans was care.

So, you see, I’m writing here – I guess – in some sort of shaking of my head in astonishment. I’ve spent seven years raising Jeb, doing my dishes and folding laundry all on my own, but never with the kind of artistry executed by the Bohemian.

This man, he makes it all seem so easy.

Sure, the skeptics can say I’m looking through the frames of rose-colored glasses. It’s true, I’m gazing with eyes that are more than downright smitten.

But that hopeful sprout of all things good and true, the one sourced inside my chest – the one that believes – it stretches to the light despite the doubt and says, “yes.”

I mean, look. I know the man cares.

The proof’s all in his fold.

I wake to a raspy low call from Jeb’s bedroom, “Moooom.”

Two days ago he boogie boarded himself right into some sort of cold/fever thing. It’s a run-of-the-mill kind of illness that doesn’t have me worried about him – he’ll recover. But the fever is high enough, the nose runny enough, his energy sluggish enough, to put me in full-time nurse mode.

This does not bode well for my plans.

Let me pause right now and say that I am thankful that Jeb is not suffering a dire illness. Give thanks that he is strong enough to bounce back from this bug in a day or two. I realize things could be much, much worse. From this perspective my next paragraph is downright petty but I’ll write it anyway.

There are no crafted words of poetry or any interesting prose for the Archives today. I have searched my photo files and I can’t seem to even find a photograph that is worthy to spruce up this wilting, germ-laden post.

The boring truth this morning at 5:41am is I’ve got a sick kid on the couch in the dark, a work deadline looming and still that same 750 word writing assignment to start. That masterpiece is due to be shared with a roomful of prolific writers on Saturday.

Furthermore, my suitcase from the trip I returned from in 2011 is still unpacked at my feet on January 10, 2012. And I’m surrounded in my living room by four loads of laundry, folded but not yet put away.

I’m sure you don’t care to hear the mundane details. Frankly, I don’t want to write them.  Maybe they’re all just a distraction from the sweet but scary path I am carving with the Bohemian.

That in the midst of all the aforementioned, I haven’t spent a night away from him. That this morning, between temperature taking and herbal tea making, I’m browsing the classifieds looking for a dresser. Like the kind that is a permanent piece of furniture. You know, a furnishing used for clothing. Not mine. But his.

I remember when I offered him half a drawer at my place. That was big.

But this, this is too big to write about it yet. I’ll stick with complaining that my son has a cold that’s keeping me from doing my work. Right now I just can’t describe what it feels like to hear the Bohemian say words like “family”, “love” and “stay” all together.

For seven years there’s been only “I” or “me”. And I can’t say for sure right here in the Archives, because I’m just that sort of cautious.

But I think…I sense…what has just come into my life is a whole new world of “we.”