My husband and I met in 2001 in my first college class. By “met” I mean, he walked in late in an over-sized hockey jersey—blue eyes sparkling and sarcasm flying. I was already seated, quietly, with a fresh notebook open and pen ready for note taking. It should have been obvious from that very first second that we couldn’t be more different, but he looked like trouble and I immediately decided it was the kind of trouble I was looking for.
At first, I meant it in a broad sense. I had a boyfriend at the time, but my friend and I agreed that Tim was the perfect crush to serve as a distraction from tedious lectures and awkward professors. We knighted him with a nickname and the seeds of obsession were planted.
It’s pretty safe to say that neither of us would have guessed that within five years we’d be raising a newborn in a basement apartment in the Bronx. Life is kind of interesting that way.
Thrirteen years later (um, that just made me feel old) we went back—this time with our two daughters in tow. It was kind of like entering the Twilight Zone.