About Us: Janna’s Story
Let’s be clear here: it wasn’t love at first sight. But I was definitely intrigued by the moustached pseudo-cowboy who greeted me by kissing the back of my hand, and with whom I talked – about all manner of things – until 2.00 a.m. on October 15, 2007, in the Denny’s where we met at a meeting for (as he now calls it) “odd people.”
He called me later, and we met for food and more conversation. Another late night, and the discussion that night had us talking about our individual plans for the future, and finding ways to accommodate each other in our lives.
By the end of that second meeting, I knew. I was loathe to say it, but I did know. And I wasn’t yet in love with him, but I knew I would be, eventually; I knew I would marry this man.
He is a man who values me and who respects me. He opens doors for me – building and car. He came to my church with me, even though the music was not his cup of tea – and he even got involved with running the sound board there. Guinea pigs are not his favourite pet, but he cares for mine as if they were his own (minus the random chatting that I do). When I am sad or upset, he tries to get me to laugh and tries to find a way to fix whatever is wrong. I am safe with him. I know that he will never purposely hurt me – not physically and not emotionally – and I know that he will protect me from outside threats to the best of his ability.
He supports me in my aspirations and dreams, though he doesn’t hesitate to point out flaws in my reasoning. Much as I may hate being told I haven’t considered all of the potential problems with an idea, his realism is a good counter to my impulsive enthusiasm. He has taught me, patiently, that gentle touch is a good thing. He will reach over while we are watching TV and stroke my neck or my forehead, and I find that I now welcome this and miss it when it’s not there. I am still a deep pressure junkie, of course, and he gives me bear hugs whenever I ask for a squish.
He wants children. Better yet, he is 100% behind me staying home with them and homeschooling. He expects that our children will probably not be typical learners. He loves to read (though in different genres from me) and loves books with a passion I have rarely found in other people around me. He likes animals and believes, as I do, that a proper dog is at least knee height, if not waist height (our first dog will hopefully be a mastiff), and that dogs should not be stuck living in the city.
Of course, he is not perfect. He has little patience for misplacing items. He is messy and doesn’t help with the housework without specific requests being made (there is the odd exception to the rule, of course). The amount of knowledge in his head can become annoying when it’s being spouted at every opportunity, and puns just aren’t so “punny” the tenth or twentieth time you’ve heard the exact same one. And he likes country music (the old stuff from the 1950s).
And yet, he is perfect for me. Not because he is flawless, but because his flaws and mine, his abilities and mine, complement each other and fit together in an amazing way. And because he makes me happy, because I miss him when he is gone, when we spend too much time separated by rooms and computers and chores and work. And because I gave my heart to him two and a half years ago, and he has not broken it yet.
For all of this and more, I love him and cannot believe how much I am blessed by his presence in my life.