The following entry was written by Lisa of Niihaus.

If my 3 year old asked me what I loved I would reply with a boisterous “Booooogers!”, an answer sure to elicit a million hard belly laughs. I love 3 year old belly laughs. This would provide a domino effect of eye rolling from my 11 year old and my 13 year old. Oddly enough, I love eye rolls from them, at least it means they’re still listening. I could spend an absolutely inappropriate amount of time rattling on and on about the things I love and how my kids are rooted in the very word love because, duh!, I’m a M-O-M. I love my kids for the same reasons all other mothers love their children with the possible addition being that I love mine just a little more because mine are funnier, smarter, and cuter than anyone else’s. I could seriously cause even the most Care Bear loving mother to spew her Starbuck’s in disgust over the lovey, smushy, gooshy, love I have for my children. So instead, I’m going to write about the love I have for a Foreigner.

I was working as a receptionist for the company that brought The Foreigner over. He was talked about amongst the circle of engineers as “The World’s Leading Expert”, “The Reason This Company Will Be Successful”, “The One Most Likely To Have Ridden A Caribou And Use Words Like Rubbish”. He wasn’t terribly impressed with me from our phone conversations. I didn’t have much drive. My goal in life was to be a receptionist, make very little money, and never become a slave to the man. I didn’t place a lot of importance on FedEx’ing his paperwork to get him into this country. But, I have to admit, I was intrigued by the whispers of the engineering staff. I thought they were all amazingly brilliant and so, to have the opportunity to meet this one they seemed to bow towards as Expert, was enough to make me sit up straight on his expected day of arrival.

Prior to marrying my first husband, I was madly in love with a man that was on the road a lot with a band. His job was to sling Ramen Noodles into the audience during the bands performances. I was in love with his lack of desire to do anything more. He didn’t need a suit, a boss, or an education. He reeked C-O-O-L. I loved the cool I felt just by association. I loved that he had at least 4,327 candles in his apartment, and I loved that he refused to drink but would do mushrooms for “the religious connection”.

The Foreigner was a far cry from the Ramen Noodle slinger. My first husband and I had gone our separate ways and it had been several years since my first meeting with The Foreigner. I had 2 kids and had moved on in my life. Moved on from receptionist and moved into responsibility as a single parent. I don’t know why I emailed The Foreigner the day that I did. I do remember feeling like I was stepping far out of my league and I really expected him to find me somewhat retarded and somewhat stalking him. But, he replied to the first email and was kind. We exchanged several emails before he admitted to having a picture of me from the company Christmas party in his photo album. That was cool because it put the stalking shoe on his foot. We agreed to meet and spend a weekend at Sea World.

It was an amazing weekend, filled with nerves and laughs. Never in my life had anyone looked at me the way he did that weekend. I didn’t have to be someone I wasn’t. When he looked at me his eyes pierced my soul. It forced me to be me and not pretend with him. I felt that if I was pretending he would see it. It was raw. This doesn’t mean I farted and burped. Let’s be real – that didn’t happen until long after we had sealed the deal at the County Courthouse.

As the weekend was drawing to a close, we both grew quiet. I think we were both feeling the loss we would feel the moment he dropped me off back at my car. He grabbed my hand and broke the silence by saying, “Can I keep you?” My whole life had been spent trying not to be kept, trying to be free, trying to find me, and in that one question I felt as though there was nothing I wanted more than to be kept by this man. I had to restrain from screaming, “Hell yes! As long as you don’t mean keep in the ‘I want to keep you in a dungeon in my house and make a skin suit out of you’ creepy sense.” And, this is where I look at him and tell him, “You complete me”, adding the whole finger point at him, circle the chest with the other hand, finger point back at me. Followed by his, perfect Just-Sucked-A-Lemon-And-It’s-Sour Renee Zellweger face, saying, “You had me at hello.” Cue the music. Send in the doves. Cue the cute kid with glasses and lisp.

The love that I have for this Foreigner transcends our differences. He makes me want to be a better person. He makes me want be a better mother. He believes in me even when I come to him with my 423rd cockamamie idea. He pisses me off and makes me mentally mutilate him 20 different ways. I *heart* The Foreigner – and the kids, and the funky dog, and Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. But without him, peanut butter cups would taste like regular cups and the infinite depths of love would never have been tapped in my soul.