Last night after dinner, my boyfriend shuttled us to Yorktown beach for a post-sunset stroll.  His brother is having surgery tomorrow with a long recovery road ahead, so a walk with the family was a much-needed respite. 

The brothers walked ahead of me with one pup and talked while Shy Little Frog ran and played with the other.  I strummed songs on Summer Sarah, my ukulele, and I watched them.

I told my mom I didn’t want to blog about my new boyfriend because it would just sound like boasting.  Sunshine and rainbows aren’t as relatable as heartache and longing.  I don’t recall ever being this happy before, so while I’m currently on cloud nine, let’s all remember that fools rush in.

And, well, we rushed.  It was instant family.  Somehow, I feel like I’m on the last lap of a decade-long dating marathon, and I’m praying this relationship will permanently retire me from that rat race. 

I can’t let muscles or construction boots fool me either; beneath that tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome exterior is a kind and gentle soul.  He’d do anything for the people in his circle of care.  His voice is familiar, like it was whispered in my dreams.  I’m not sure I could lie to him.  He seems to read my mind regularly, and I think too much for anyone else to keep up. 

Anyone except my mother, that is.  For months, Mama Joy’s been nudging me to suspend blogging while I focus on my novel.  This will be my last post for a while. I found the story that I want to be writing, and I’m ready to get lost in it… at least, when he’s at work and she’s at school. 

When I was single, blogging on Tuesday nights was a way to be productive in an otherwise less scheduled existence than my brothers and their wives experience.  My boyfriend and his daughter are fully supportive of my writing nights, I just want to be a part of the laughter instead of hearing it inside the house behind me while I write about them.

At the pier last night, a fisherman caught a sting ray.  I had never seen one in person before, much less touched one.  Shy Little Frog and I did both.  I was wishing that one of my students from last year could see me now.  He’d remember the York River from our book about the civil war spy.  He’d remember my greatest wish was to be a mom.  He’d be happy for me.

Oddly enough, he’d given me a teletie last year, and I wore it every day.  He’d been jealous that I thought of another student each morning when I put coverup over the stitches I got when we bumped heads playing basketball.  The pink hair tie matched my dress.  He told me I would make the best mom.  He’d remind me the students were my children. 

The week before I met Shy Little Frog and her dad, I lost that little teletie.  It had been on my wrist or in my hair for almost a full calendar year.  While I promptly replaced it with a lookalike that still reminds me of that young man in Pickens County, it’s the timing of its loss that fascinates me.  It’s as though two dozen years of being a surrogate mother to everyone else’s children just might be coming to an end along with this decade dating marathon. 

Sunday evening, we had our first disagreement, only it wasn’t so much with each other as it was me with the air.  This weekend is his daughter’s twelfth birthday, and with a family meal Friday night and a birthday party with friends Saturday night to celebrate, there was a need for menu planning. 

Shy Little Frog requested bacon-wrapped meatballs and salad for the party.  Her dad and I rounded out that menu successfully, and then we shifted to the family night.

I mentally considered what I knew about his oldest sister’s gluten and dairy allergies and knew I could make a special plate for her.  Cooking for his family for the first time, I wanted something I could make well, could feed a lot of people, and leave me free to decorate before the party.  Lasagna? 

“Oh, my family loves lasagna.  Let’s do that!”

 Ten minutes later, his mom was on the speakerphone going over weekend party details.  She was letting me know about good substitutes for dairy free cheese if I chose to make a special lasagna for his sister.  Having already decided I’d fix a different dish not so lactose based, I still played along. 

“What do you substitute for ricotta cheese?” I asked. 

“Ricotta?” his mom replied with disgust. “We don’t eat that stuff!” 

Suddenly, I was in a time warp portal.  I could hear my ex-mother-in-law’s voice in her kitchen, directing me how to prepare dishes as they were to be made by a good Mexican mother.  I tried hard to be good in the kitchen, but my Italian dishes were not on the extended family menu.  Would it be the same now with his Puerto Rican and Mexican roots?

Eventually, words surfaced, and I spat out a moderately controlled, “Okay, then I’ll just make something else.  I’m not ruining a perfect lasagna recipe to leave out ricotta, a key ingredient.”

When we hung up, my boyfriend asked me to fix my energy.  I proceeded to rant for three minutes about how lasagna is prepared.  I must have said the word ricotta a hundred times.  It was the first time I ever ranted that it felt unnecessary.  As usual, he already knew what I was thinking, but he waited until I was done. 

Ultimately, the only thing we disagreed about was how quickly I could reign in my thoughts.  He was right that this wasn’t about his mother or the meal.  Until last night, I’d never seen a stingray.  My boyfriend knew a stingray was on the line by the struggle it put up.  I had to wait for it to be reeled up to the surface and put under a flashlight to know what that fisherman was dealing with.  

And that’s how it feels when I get passionate about something with him.  He didn’t bristle at my temper, may have even found it entertaining. He knows what he’s dealing with, knows what’s coming to the surface before I do… I only seem to get to surprise him in the delightfully unexpected ways. 

I know we rushed in.  Time might make fools of us.  But he surprises me, too.  He doesn’t just want me to make my lasagna for him, ricotta cheese and all; he wants me to make my entire book of recipes for him.

“That could take a lifetime,” I thought. 

“I hope so,” he said. 

I’ll check back in a few weeks.  For now, I’ve got a novel to write… and a Hallmark movie to keep living as long as it lasts.