No. 18 | When they met

The men in my life had met only twice before, briefly.

1.

The first time they met was on the street where I live.

One was going glamping with me—our first trip together—with the carefully negotiated permission of the other, who would stay home, and tend to work and house and child, while I was away.

One was going to swing by for me in his van before we drove down to Drenthe together. The other, seeing me struggle with my bags—I would only be away for two nights, but I was an inexperienced camper and hadn’t learned how to pack light—turned to me and said: “Do you want me to help you bring your stuff downstairs?”

“Are you sure?” I said, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged and said, “Sure, why not.”

We had talked about this meeting many times, and agreed it was long overdue.

“It feels absurd not to have met him yet, when he’s so clearly a part of your life,” he’d said.

We’d pictured beers at our neighborhood bar, or when the bars closed down again, at the park or on the side of some canal somewhere, preferably in the sunshine, feet dangling over the water.

We hadn’t pictured it like this at all, unfolding awkwardly on the street next to a double-parked van that held a guitar, scrap firewood and photography gear. But that was how it happened. Life is funny that way.

One hopped out of the driver’s seat while the other loaded my bags into the back of the van, sidestepping bicycles that whizzed past him on the street.

Then, the men in my life exchanged wide smiles, nervous laughter, tight-gripped handshakes. Having never imagined that this moment would ever come to pass, I watched, secretly thrilled, awed at the life I had made, that somehow made this possible.

It’s really happening, I remember thinking to myself. Wild.

One said, “Finally, a face to the name,” boggling my mind as to how he’d never searched for the face of the other on social media in all the time we’d been together. The other said, “Take care of her,” because he is always protective of me that way.

Mentions of the long-overdue beer were made, or perhaps coffee, followed by rapid head-bobbing and still more nervous laughter.

And I loved them both for it.

Before I got into the van with one, I hugged the other, whispering, “Thank you, I love you.”

He hugged me back. “This is so awkward! I love you too. Have fun.”

2.

The second time was when one helped me carry bags, again—this time, bags of clothes and toys and baby things —into a photography studio.

The clothes and toys and baby things belonged to the child I have with one, while the photography studio belonged to the other.

“It feels like you should drop by the shoot,” I had said to one as we sorted through them together, after the other had come up with the idea. “These are our memories, our daughter, our life.”

“I think you’re right,” he replied.

So there he was, and there they were. Material for a shoot carried in by one, concept carried out by the other.

And I loved them both for it.

One stood with a cup of coffee watching the other do his thing: rigging and testing, focusing and firing, cable-snaking and light-making. It was possibly less awkward than the first time, for there was enough to keep all three of us busy.

I remember being aware of how I oriented myself in the space, making a conscious effort to stay equidistant between them, never too close to one or the other for too long.

I don’t know exactly why: to help both feel at ease? To show no preference or favor towards one or the other?

One left, the other stayed. An amiable goodbye, a quick kiss, forgotten house keys, a mad rush. Then we, all three of us, got to work.

3.

The third time was a celebration.

It had been postponed several times, but turned out to be well worth the wait. There were pearlescent balloons trailing silvery tails from the ceiling, a ball pit in the bathtub. Adobo and lumpia on banana leaves spread out over the table, two kinds each of rum, whiskey and gin at the bar.

One brought a magnificent slow roast pork belly out of the oven; the other brought a cloud of pastel balloons and a rainbow cape designed for joyous twirling.

This time, dancing bodies filled any spaces that might have been awkward. Music and laughter filled any silences that might have been uncomfortable. Everything flowed like wine in the warm, glowing blur of candlelight.

Without really interacting, the men in my life orbit each other in this ever-shifting space that I call my life. Seeing them together, inhabiting the same space with a comfortable ease, showing up and being present for me, made me feel loved and special in a way that few other things in my life have.

And I love them both for it.

I have no grand ambitions to kitchen-table-this and non-hierarchical-that. I don’t need my husband and my boyfriend to be best friends or even buddies.

For this—knowing that this all works, that we are all loved, happy and growing—is already more than I had hoped for.

A 40th birthday gift that could never have been bought in any store, and a self that I could never have imagined becoming at 40.

The click of a button, a flash of light, a slick tongue of film. This moment—a slice of time in the life I never knew I wanted—is sealed instantly in paper and emulsion, in meaning and memory.

Three days later, I find Instax snapshots in odd places: in the tub, on the fridge, propped up against books, stashed in drawers. I know which ones I will treasure most.

Thank you for reading. You won’t believe how much self-censoring I had to get over to publish this piece! Writing it came so easily, even playfully, but convincing myself that I don’t need anyone’s permission to share it was another matter.

I read a lot of brave writing this week. So I figured: if women out there are writing about their sexual assault at the hands of police, their polyamorous Thanksgiving dinners, their liberation from child marriage and a cult, then I can write about a goddamn birthday party.

Here in Amsterdam, the trees are almost bare and every waking morning feels like a struggle . But the lights in the windows across the canal twinkle warmly at night, and I have a dozen bottles of wine left over from my 40th birthday celebration.

I’m going to enjoy my late November pleasures; I hope you do, too.

See you in two weeks!