This Is What 16 Years Looks Like

I woke up this morning blowing my nose.  I’ve done this so much over the past month that there’s now a trash can on my side of the bed.  If it bothers you, you haven’t said anything.  Also?  You were snoring again.  And, as annoying as that sound is, it’s also reassuring.  How lucky am I to crawl into bed with my best friend every night?

I’ll leave for work before you wake up, though not until after your phone alarm has gone off once or twice.  It sings that annoying song that I can’t make out unless my hearing aids are in.  Something about either sipping drinks on the beach or hanging in the hood?  What kind of idiot would choose the latter?  I liked your choice of music better when we both listened to Boyz II Men and Shai and Sukiyaki by 4 P.M.  You introduced me to Dan Hill, and we used to cruise town listening to one of his cassettes in your little green sports car.  Sometimes I wish we could revisit those days — when we were seventeen and had curfews and the anticipation of seeing you on Friday and Saturday nights made me smile Sunday through Thursday.

Those were the days before hearing aids and alarm clocks.  Before grocery lists and doctors’ appointments.  Before mortgages and after-work meetings and disciplining our children.

Those were the days before our children.

It’s always at this point in my thinking that I change my mind:  I’d never trade these days for those days.  I can’t imagine going back to a life that didn’t involve a thirteen-year-old son and a six-year-old daughter.

When we were seventeen, I didn’t think I’d ever be any more in love with you than I was at that point; my heart couldn’t grow any bigger, I reasoned.  It was the summer of 1994, and I knew I had found my soul mate.

And then on a summer day in 2001, Tyler entered our lives a few weeks earlier than we were expecting him.  When I saw my sweet baby, my heart grew.  And when I saw you hold him, it doubled again.  You know how in the movies time moves in slow motion sometimes?  That’s what happened when I saw you hold Tyler.  I can still picture it vividly nearly fourteen years later.

I can also remember your smile when I gifted you a pair of baby shoes in November of 2007.  Such a grand smile crossed your face when as the realization of what that meant hit.  Your smile was just as grand the day that Ava completed our family in July of 2008. I don’t know how my heart didn’t physically explode at the joy of that day.

So, sixteen years.  Two kids.  A couple of dogs — the one who thinks she’s a cat is snuggled in my lap right now.  A house I want to sell, but will miss terribly if we do.  After all, we’ve nearly a decade of memories down Corinth Road.  A minivan.  I drive a dirty black minivan.  And you know what?  I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  The minivan life means I have a family who is still under my roof.  We can load the van and head to Texas or Florida or the Carolinas, snacks between the kids, movies playing in the backseat, iPads stored behind the driver’s chair.  Or we can pick up the kids’ cousins or friends and head to the movies or bowling or a ballgame.  That’s what minivan-ownership lets us do.  It lets us make memories.  Us, who have been married long enough to build a family, but not so long that our babies have moved out of our home yet.  Us, who have been married sixteen years.

I love you, husband.  You know people think it’s corny that I call you that?  Husband.  I’m just so happy you’re mine, though, and I want people to know it.  We chose to spend our lives together, and what a fantastic choice that’s been.

I love that you are so passionate about your work.  I love that you laugh with your kids.  I love that you’ve never said anything about my weight, though it has climbed steadily since our first date.  I love that you have horrible taste in movies; the way you out-laughed the elementary bunch at Paddington made me smile.  I love how willing you are to help family, friends, strangers.  I love your fantastically full lips, your engaging smile, your strong hands.  I love your story — where you started and how far you’ve grown.  It takes a strong person to do what you’ve done.  I love that you provide for us.  I love us.

Happy sixteenth anniversary to us.  Almost twenty-one years since our first date.  Let’s have another date tonight, husband.