At about 5:30ish this evening, we will have been married for exactly ten years. (We will BE married? We Will Have Been seems incorrect. However, it’s much better than we WOULD have been, yes?) Anyway, ten years is nuts. I’ve never done ANYTHING consistently for ten years, and now this! We’ve reached a decade!
When I think back to our first ten years of marriage, I immediately land on our London trip. Although I used to be able to recite the day-by-day timeline, my memories have now sort of jumbled into a big stew (mulligatawny?) with tiny hints of watching Aimee Mann singing Fourth of July on the Fourth of July and lots of tomato mozzarella sandwiches and Mr. Kipling Cherry Bakewells and the little boy who thought the manhole covers in Bristol were made of chocolate. And then I skip forward a bit and think about OUR kids.
When you marry someone who doesn’t have kids and you don’t have kids, it’s really sort of a gamble when you start throwing around the idea of babies. After giving birth to Meredith, I quickly learned that I am not a good baby person. Although I think they’re mostly cute, I don’t understand babies. I can’t make them stop crying. My patience runs thin when they fill their diapers too much (or worse, not enough). You, however, were a gem. You would come home from work, drop your briefcase onto the floor, swoop up Meredith, and suddenly All Was Well. And then Harper came into the picture (how did THAT happen?!) and I became even MORE frazzled (can you imagine?!), and you became even MORE of a great dad. (Seriously. You’re clever and witty. You have great taste in music. You’re a good cook. All of those things should be good enough. BUT, then you had to throw in Baby Pro and so much more. Smitten, I am.)
During those days when I was home alone with an infant and a two year old, I often found myself wishing (against the pastel-colored advice of others) that I could somehow speed up time to the point where the girls could actually TALK to me instead of pointing and crying and throwing themselves onto the floor where they stomped and spat and frothed. The universe listened.
Here we are. Ten years in. I have you, who I consider to be my best friend and perfect match. I have the girls, who are bright and funny and curious and wonderful. (I have the dogs and the cats, who really deserve much more than a parenthetical aside, but right now they’re being jerks so I’ve demoted them from Paragraph to Sentence.) Essentially, because of what happened ten years ago today, I have the perfect life.
This morning I realized that we’ll be celebrating our twentieth anniversary when Meredith is a freshman in college. And then I started thinking about how she might actually go AWAY to college, and then two years later, Harper will probably do the same, and okay. That pastel-c0lored advice doesn’t seem quite so AM radio anymore. My tenth anniversary gift to you? I’m going to try to figure out how to Slow Time Down. (I’ll begin by limiting my caffeine intake.)
Thank you for the past 3,652 days.
We’ve survived the life expectancy of a platypus.
Here’s hoping we see many more generations of playtpuses/platypi living just as happily as we do.
(Did you know that there is no universally agreed plural form of Platypus?)
I’ll always believe that this song was written for us.