It’s not always sleeping in the same bed – partly because our kids love to fall asleep next to us, and partly because we’re so damn tired all the time that sometimes we fall asleep before they do, and then the other one just sleeps in a different bed.
It’s Marc making the pot of coffee the night before, every night, because he knows I’m too groggy to be measuring teaspoons and cups of water first thing in the morning.
It’s me doing all the laundry and folding it, but putting away only mine and the kids. Not because I don’t like Marc, but because proper placement of clean clothes matters so much more to him than it does to me. My blatant disregard for where the socks go as compared to the underwear is more than our marriage can handle at times. So I fold with love, and leave it on the dryer for him to put away.
It’s Marc, resignedly handing over his set of keys because I can’t find mine. Again. And then not saying anything when I discover them at the bottom of my pocketbook. Again.
It’s Marc always filling the car up with gas, so I never have to drive with the car on empty.
It’s me cutting up a whole mess of celery for the chicken soup, even though I hate everything about celery, because it’s his favorite.
It’s him pouring me coffee. All the time. And then bringing it to me again when I put it down somewhere and forget about it.
It’s me making sure that Marc doesn’t do Jessie’s science project for her, because he could, and wants to – but knows that I’m right and consciously steps back so she can do it by herself.
It’s him telling me to sit down and let him deal with an eleven year old who wants so badly to grow up that she can’t help herself from screaming at me.
It’s him, doing the dishes with sports radio on in the background because he knows I hate doing dishes.
It’s me taking a sobbing temper tantrum filled Sam away from him and carrying him into the bedroom to give them both space.
It’s the blue hoodie that’s technically his, and I’ve been wearing it since October.
It’s me deciding to bring home a whole chicken, and making him do all the yucky work, like taking the skin off and then pulling all the meat off the bones for soup.
It’s him, happily doing it, and grateful that I wanted to make matzoh ball soup on a snowy day.
It’s him taking Jessica out for dinner once a week, because spending one on one time with her is so critical, and she’s blossomed with the added attention.
It’s me realizing that Sam will happily do his homework, as long as I sit on the floor and keep him company.
It’s the three way hug that Julie insists on before one of us leaves. Because an individual Julie/parent hug is nowhere near as good for her.
It’s us, curled up together on the couch, a laptop in front of him and a book in my hands.
It’s us, dancing in the dining room to music that nobody else can hear.
It’s us – as it has been for twelve years now. He’s my best friend, my husband, my other half. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without him.
Happy anniversary, Marc. There aren’t enough words to express it, but know that I love you with all that I am. You are my happily ever after, and it’s nicer than I ever imagined it would be.
1 pings