Dream Man.

I have this man in my head. He is my vision of what my husband will be.

Dream Man is taller than I am, but that's not too hard. He has broad shoulders and a strong, masculine build. He has eyes that sparkle and soft but striking features. His hair is light and kind of shaggy, like he's been too busy to get a hair cut. His fingernails are stubby and his facial hair is scruffy. He stands confidently and comfortably. His voice is low. You can hear him smile when he talks.

Dream Man is always smiling. He's positive and altruistic. He cares about humanity and the ones he loves. He has a strong fatherly instinct, maybe he has younger sisters. He is soft and sensitive, but fiercely protective. He has an upbeat and friendly sense of humor around acquaintances and a dry, witty, sarcastic, sometimes nasty sense of humor with his family and friends. He believes in God, but isn't religious, and cares about staying focused and centered. He is driven in his career, but cares only about providing for his family.

In my most favorite fantasy Dream Man and I live in a brightly lit, always cheery version of my grandparent's house in Cleveland. There are yellow and orange flowers in a vase on the kitchen table, and Nirvana or Johnny Cash or the Beatles are always playing on some out-of-sight radio. All the walls are some shade of yellow, like butter cream or sunshine or marigold. Everything looks like it's glowing. Our son, who I call Francis, our adopted daughters, who are presumably named whatever their biological parents named them, and our foster children are playing somewhere. Dream Man comes home from work while it's still light out. He comes up behind me while I wash dishes at the sink and wraps his arms around me. His hair brushes my face and he kisses me hello.

This theoretical son is named Francis Keith. He is only theoretical because I haven't met Dream Man yet. Some day I want this family. So, wherever you are, I am waiting for you, both of you. I can't wait to meet you.