You asked their names.
And gave yours.
Checked out my ring finger.
Then charged my credit card for the food.
Full price. No divorced mom discount.
That would come later.
We met again, a few months later, sans children.
In a bar, of course.
You scared me and my friend with your memory of my kids’ names.
Then proceeded to dance with your girlfriend.
Around a pole.
And then smacked her on the rear end.
Who would have thought that four years later,
We would be wed.
No, I’m being serious.
Who would have thought.
And most of the rest of our town.
But, here we are.
Over eight years after that first introduction.
Together in imperfectly wedded bliss.
Three children, and us, blended together
Like Neapolitan ice cream.
That over time melts in to one light brown color.
I love that color.
And I love you.
And the life that we have made together.
Our home, a mix of old, and older, furniture.
An ice maker that doesn’t work.
A kitchen faucet that’s falling apart.
And a boudoir that sees more action
Than a CR Chicks on any given Monday.
(People don’t like to cook on Mondays.)
We have our friends who share our love of food,
Laughs, cruises and trips to Oktoberfest.
The real one.
Thursday nights and Friday morning headaches.
Dinner parties with a cast of a thousand nations.
And meals that are the envy of many.
Our kids, growing up faster than the speed of light.
Good citizens, fighters at times and frequently funny.
All three looking like none of the others.
But gorgeous in their differences.
Red hair, light brown hair, dark brown hair.
Blue eyes, hazel eyes.
Tall and thin, tall and sturdy, and small and petite.
And then there is us.
Seriously, who would have thought?
On our first Valentine’s Day together, you gave me a lamp.
Not just any lamp.
A refurbished Capo di Monte.
And I don’t think that I’ve gotten another present since then.
Other than knowing that every day is Valentine’s Day.
People say to me, “You’re so fucking happy.”
And they’re right.
Though our life together is by no means without tears and heartache,
Disagreements and misunderstandings.
And dirty, smelly socks left on the floor in the den.
It is perfect in its imperfection.
I am the Luckiest Woman Alive (LWA).
Sidebar: Look Josh, I wrote a whole blog post and barely mentioned our sex life. But check out number 42.