I think it’s time I told you the story behind the dedication of my book. If you’ve read it, you’ve seen this, and maybe wondered what it was all about:
The worm is how we fell in love, or at least how I fell in love with him.
Let’s take a step back. It’s 2007. I’m starting a fresh new chapter in life: the Masters in Teaching program at Seattle University. I make friends. Great friends, and love my new path.
In our cohort there is this guy named Dave whom I can’t quite figure out. He wears old tee shirts and flip-flops all the time; he’s always smiling and talks to everyone with ease. He left a high-paying career in software to become a low-paid math teacher. But there’s some sort of glow around him. Maybe it’s his just his rosy cheeks, I think. But no, it’s more than that—he is the type of person people are drawn to because he is so easy to be around, and that’s his glow.
One of our assigned observations is at an alternative middle school. Eight of us are sent there, and then divided into partners for observing the classrooms. I’m paired with Dave. At first he makes me feel awkward—he sits too close and his face is inches from mine when he speaks (this, I would later learn, was because he had a huge crush on me right from the start of the program). He asks me personal questions when we’re there to work. But he also makes me a little flustered, in a good way. In the I’m-developing-a-crush-too sort of way.
On the first day when the lunch bell rings, we go to the teacher’s lounge and grab our food. The rest of our cohort sits down to eat, but Dave, being the rebel and social butterfly that I am learning he is, leaves. “I’m going to eat with the kids,” he says, one foot out the door. I follow him without even thinking.
We make our way to the playground and find a group of seventh-grade girls that offer us spots beneath their shady tree. Dave makes silly conversation that the girls adore, asking them about their favorite colors and movies and bands. “Are you going to be our teacher next year?” they ask. He is going to make a great teacher, I think to myself. And as I sit next to him, I find that my mind is drawn to him. I’m not thinking about the banter of these girls, asking me where I grew up and what kind of music I listen to. I’m spitting out robotic answers, because all I can think about is Dave.
On our last day at the school, we observe a special education classroom where children from all ranges of the Autism spectrum learn together. Their teacher is a gem, and at the end of her lesson declares, “It’s the Jenny and Dave hour! You get to ask them whatever you want.” The kids light up like Christmas lights.
For the next fifteen minutes we’re peppered with questions from how much money we make to what size shoe we wear to what our favorite foods are. Then one boy stands up. He speaks with his head down, his face flushed, wringing his hands together and rocking from side to side as he speaks. There is an important question in his brain that he needs to ask. He is being extremely brave in this moment.
“If there is a piece of chocolate and it has a worm on top, which one of you would eat the chocolate and which one of you would eat the worm?”
I look to Dave and Dave looks to me.
“I’ll eat the worm,” he says. “She can have the chocolate.”
From that day forward, we fell for each other. Hard. Knowing that he was the one, and him knowing that I was the one, I made him wait to ask me the question—the question that comes with a ring—for three months. A year before I entered the Masters program I had broken off an engagement that left me wounded. I had to be extremely sure that this was going to last forever; that he was indeed the one, and the only one, forever.
Three very happy months later, we took a walk to a park near his house. We loved going to parks and sitting on the swings, talking and laughing and doing nothing. It was our thing. As I sat on the swing, thinking about how our three months were up, Dave came around, stood in front of me, and then knelt. I don’t remember the words or how I said yes, but that yes, that agreement between us that we would be partners for the rest of our lives was the best decision I ever made.
Partners. There are no better words for what we are to one another. We tackle this life together, one day at a time, with a strong-willed 2 year-old, a sweet, precocious 4 year-old, one sweet dog, and a nagging broken ear. Somehow we do it all, but there is no way that we could if we didn’t do it together.
We wrote our own marriage vows, and recited them to one another five years ago this week: August 2nd, 2008. One line of our vows was this: “I promise to support you. I will help you when you need help and try to help even when you don’t ask for it.” Dave has done exactly that and more for me in the past year. My illness has tested our lives, our strength, our sanity. And through it all, Dave has me covered. It’s like he’s superhuman or something—he works all day, then comes home to the two wild things and takes over so I can rest. He “eats the worm” everyday, and I’d be nothing without him.
Plus he keeps me in chocolate, so there’s that.