Exactly eight years ago today, Jake and I were married in my childhood home. (I would love to share pictures, but alas, that was before digital cameras were the norm. How quickly things change.)
I know I’m biased, but I still consider it the best wedding I’ve ever been to. Not only was it beautiful – thanks to my family and friends’ hard work – but it was sincere. Jake and I fell hard for each other, marrying after just four months of engagement, and I think our wedding reflected that love. In the brutally honest words of my best friend, Caroline, “Your wedding made it seem like your marriage actually might survive.” And indeed, it has.
That being said, the nature of our anniversary celebrations has changed pretty dramatically this year:
Reason #1: Seabass. He’s here, we adore him, and yes, he has caused us mild brain damage. Whereas in years past we used to ramp-up to October 5th with secret plans to sweep each other off our feet, this year, neither of us even realized it was our anniversary until late last night in a sort of “oh yeah – huh” stupor.
Reason #2: I’m sick as a dog. I’ve heard that illness is de rigeur for mothers within their first year with baby, so I’d been waiting for the inevitable. It hit Saturday night like a tsunami. Since then, I’ve been either in bed, nursing Seabass in the glider, or sprawled on the couch watching the Bourne Identity/Supremacy/Ultimatum because seeing Jason Bourne kick serious international butt just makes me feel better.
Thankfully, romance is not quite dead in our home. No, not yet. This morning I found a precious love note from my sweet husband tucked into the one place he knew I’d find it: in the roll of toilet paper I’ve been carrying with me around the house. (Cue: aaaawwwwwww.) And for him, I’ve prepared his absolute favorite sweet treat in the entire world: Funfetti cupcakes. From a box. He knows what a sacrifice this is because a) I’m sick and b) it KILLS ME to buy the box with the Pillsbury doughboy on it. (I mean, have you ever heard of such a thing? A man preferring Pillsbury to from-scratch cupcakes? I ask you.) But it is a special occasion, so whatever Jake wants, Jake gets.
Happy anniversary, darling. You’re still the man I didn’t know I could hope for. Now pass the Nyquil.