This week, you and I have been married for a year and a half. Eighteen months! We were eighteen years old when we met, so perhaps that’s why this feels like a momentous time. Next month, we’ll have been married for nineteen months, which is the number of years we’ve known each other.
You and me? We’ve known each other a long time. Also: We are old. But I digress.
In light of our time together and also the fact that 1) I still really, really like you and 2) you are a saint and 3) you are rather adorable, I have been wracking my brain to come up with a single picture that properly encapsulates what it means to me to have you by my side.
I roamed around the house with a camera this morning.
Should I take a picture of the neatly-made bed? The bed I never make, but you always do? Or maybe the empty laundry baskets… the ones into which I place the clean, folded laundry. And then I leave it there. But you always put it away, and you never complain.
Maybe I could take a picture of all the boxes that came in the mail yesterday. Various reviews items, mostly, plus some giveaway stuff, and BOOKS (three different packages with books), and a couple of things I actually ordered that were not work related. As is typical of me, I opened the boxes to check the contents, and then left the carnage scattered around the office—our shared office—and you didn’t say a word.
I considered snapping a shot of your tool chest—all of the drawers labeled, all of the tools carefully lined up in rows—too. That didn’t seem quite right. Then I thought maybe a picture of the twine you bought to hang up Monkey’s flying dragon for him, but that wasn’t it, either.
The picture I want isn’t here.
I don’t know how to make the picture that shows that you love me when I’m fun to be around, and happy, and clean up after myself, but that you ALSO love me when I’m cranky, and tired, and cutting a swath of mess and bad attitude through the house.
I never get the picture of Chickadee’s face lighting up when you come in the door, or Monkey’s quiet delight when he gets to ride in the truck with you on some sort of important, manly errand.
Last night I snapped at you and sat seething at my computer, overwhelmed and busy, and you just gave me a hug—a real hug; none of this half-hearted crap for you—and then left me to get my work done. Without judgment, without rancor. With complete understanding that I didn’t mean to be a jerk, and with forgiveness for my having been one.
You get me. I see it everywhere I look, I feel it everywhere I go. (Yeah, even when I’m being a shrew and saying, “Don’t you listen when I tell you stuff?”) You’re the photographer; you could probably put that into a single photo. I don’t know how.
It’s been the best eighteen months of my life. Let’s do it thirty more times. Wanna? (I’m probably still not going to make the bed, but I’m working really hard at being less grumpy.)
You’re my favorite.
P.S. Happy Love Thursday.