Dearest, darlingest you,
Right around this time last year, we were running through last minute checklists, packing the kids up, rehearsing our grand entrance, and playfully squabbling over yet-to-be finalized vows and speeches. We were nervous and excited and stressed and happy all at the same time.
Also, at this time last year, we wrote letters to one another to be sealed in a box with a bottle of wine for us to fall back on when we had our first fight, or, in the unlikely event that we didn’t have a fight, to be read/consumed on our first anniversary. Since those letters are still locked up, I guess there hasn’t been a point in the last year where we’ve felt compelled to remind ourselves why we got married in the first place. I kind of doubt we’ll ever reach that point. I don’t remember what I wrote in my letter (guess I’ll find out tomorrow), so here’s another one.
Our life together has not been what most would refer to as “traditional”. First came the apartment, then the ring, then the kid, then the other kid, and then, quite a bit later, the official paperwork. Our wedding wasn’t the beginning of our life together; it was more like a really expensive dinner party to celebrate a program already in progress. So, in theory, our anniversary shouldn’t mean much. Yet somehow, it does.
When I met you half a lifetime ago, I had not an inkling that one day, you would be the person that I insistently woke at 1 AM because there was a spider on the ceiling, or the guy that I would be pointing to after telling my daughter, “Mama’s super busy right now. But you know who would love to read Goodnight Moon to you…again?”. It’s kind of crazy, if I think about it. You are the glue that figuratively holds our family together, and that literally does the dishes and gives the baths and makes the money, all of which I’m quite thankful for.
In my vows, I promised to be the spice to your sugar, the bad cop to your good cop, and the yang to your yin. I didn’t do that to call attention to the many ways in which we’re different, but to emphasize that we are two halves of the same whole. Solid. No one will write starry-eyed love songs about our great romance. Our love is not the stuff dreams are made of. What we have is so real, so intrinsic, that it can only exist in this world. It’s the mortar between the long commutes and the diaper changes and the omnipresent piles of laundry that never seem to end up where they’re supposed to. It’s like background noise, always there, never too loud, and very, very comforting. I couldn’t go to sleep at night without it.
Before I start getting too wild with the metaphors, I’ll end this here. I love you. Happy anniversary.