Laying beside you, I close my eyes and envision the future. A little family of our own, curled up in a "hipster lodge" made of blankets, lights, and lots of love. We make promises to treat our kids well, to love them no matter what. To let them be fat, or skinny, or whatever they are. Because children are beautiful no matter what size they are. I look at you, and tears sit quietly in the wings, waiting for their turn on the stage of my face. Happiness can't be measured in grams, ounces, or anything tangible. Happiness is falling asleep beside you and waking up when you kiss my forehead. Happiness is thinking about what our kids will look like, and how we think they'll turn out. Happiness is the scruffiness of your beard tickling my neck when you kiss my shoulder. I can't imagine a better kind of happiness. I dream of our little monsters, toddling around the kitchen, pulling on my long hippie skirt. Then all of a sudden, our little monsters are not so little anymore, and we eat dinner together and talk about Kafka and other various topics. All I can dream of is providing a loving and intellectually stimulating environment for these little monsters to grow up in. I can't imagine it with anyone else but you.