Fifty is kind of old. I mean, for a husband of mine to be.
I’m only 47. His trophy wife.
And in the grand scheme of things, we haven’t been together for that long. Ours is a second marriage. In a few months, it’ll be ten years since we first, well, you know.
And seven since we were married.
Which is as long as my first marriage lasted.
But ours is for keeps. Because as a friend once said, there’s somebody for everybody.
And my somebody has my love for life.
Let me tell you a few things about him:
He snores. So loudly that the kids can hear him in their bedrooms with the doors closed, at the other end of the hallway.
He’s able to fall asleep in a chair at the drop of a hat.
But that’s because he works really hard.
He’s tall and built sturdy. Manly. So that when he wraps his arms around me I feel protected.
He’s handsome. And sexy. (Yes, he rocks my world.)
When he was a kid, he had a big swoop of red hair. Though I only know that from the old pictures. Still, I can testify to the fact that the carpet used to match the drapes. Until the drapes mostly fell out. Or turned gray.
He grew up without much of a dad. His mom? She did a great job with him. Though I know it wasn’t easy.
She died nine years ago. Much too early.
But I know she’s proud of him.
Just like I am.
Proud of the boy he was and the man he is.
A father, stepfather, brother, friend and husband.
Generous. Kind. A most excellent cook. And definitely old school.
The night his mom died, I knelt down next to her recliner and whispered to her that she didn’t have to worry about him. That I would take care of him. I hope she thinks that I’m doing a good job. As good of a job as he does taking care of me and our family.
Happy 50th birthday baby.
You are my home.
And I love you.
PS Age is just a number.
Bottom image courtesy of Maggie Evans Silverstein (His adoring mother-in-law.)