Project Optimism: It’s Been Seven Years and I Still Like You

Dear Husband,

Under the scorching sun of our honeymoon, we dreamed of spending our fifth wedding anniversary somewhere just as tropical and romantic. How foolish young lovers are. If I recall, we spent our fifth in tears because our infant was the devil’s own. Thankfully, she has since mellowed and we are actually in talks to expand our family. Are we insane? Don’t answer that.

You deserve a medal. An award. Or a you-know-what (my dad could be reading) for putting up with me. The hormonal roller coasters. The incessant Internet usage.  The blogging addiction. You’ve the patience of a saint and the style of an 80-year-old, and I just love that about you.

We’ve made two beautiful, healthy, hilarious little people, and I thank God every day that I share my life with you. Except the days that I want to do some serious damage to the credit card and you’re all “That’s not in the Family Budget!!” Those days, I *kinda* wish I had married a plastic surgeon who specializes in boobs instead of a math teacher. But I really like that you’re home with us in the summers, and that you’re good enough with numbers that you can track my cycle and determine our safe days. Very helpful you are.

You inspire me to be a better person, even though I’m too lazy to make it happen. You’ve given me free reign to post all of our made-for-reality-TV conversations on Facebook  for my pals’ viewing pleasure, and you try really hard to stay awake while I pout about stuff like missing BlogHer 2013 and that Canoe Paddler is the only flavor left in our Leinenkugel Summer Variety Pack.

I know I’m sure hard to handle now, yes I am (sing it); I’m an emotional thinker, a rash do-er, and a passionate advocate for things like silverware drawer organization. I also speak and write in a stream of consciousness which can be difficult to follow at times. Your calm counters my chaos. Either that or you ignore me. A lot.

You willingly spend an inordinate amount of time with my family, and while I realize Sunday family dinners and excessive birthday celebrations can weigh on a person, you never complain. Ever. Which again begs the question, are you ignoring us?

Hey, remember last year when we were on vacation (with my family) and I begged you to recreate that adorable picture I found on Pinterest and you were all, “You get one chance, one pose, and then I’m going to the Boardwalk”? That was fun. And because I love you and value your time, I’ve updated the photo for this post without bothering you. (Kindly note that you will pose again when we arrive at our vacation destination. Don’t start.)

 

And now for the Hallmark ish: you’re an incredible dad. If the kids see a cool bug in the yard or an airplane in the sky, they want to show dad. Something funny? Dad. Something they have questions about? Dad. If they want a meal that requires more than reheating? Dad. I’m inclined to say you’re a better parent than I, but that’s just silly. We’re good in different ways and that’s why we make such a great team. Plus there’s no DAD in team, so don’t get all arrogant on me.

And now for the real ish: I could do without your early morning wake-up calls (4:45AM. Seriously?), as you are entirely incapable of doing things quietly or speaking in anything that resembles a whisper. My eyes are barely open and you start firing tough questions at me like, “Did you sleep well?” I don’t know because I’m not awake yet. I don’t care that you don’t care for the smell of freshly brewed coffee (freak), but enough of your pretend gagging. Despite your unwavering opinion, dog farts smell much worse. And let me tell you what’s worse than both percolating coffee and canine flatulence: your onion breath. But you don’t see me fake ralphing over it.

Even though the seventh year anniversary is traditionally celebrated with copper, I got you the fifth year gift instead: wood. No. Not that kind of wood; the oak tree that you’ve been obsessing over the way Hannibal Lecter pined for Clarice Starling. No one understands your enthusiasm for trunks and leaves, but you painstakingly transplanted that bad boy in our front yard with so much care that I couldn’t help but spread my arms wide, look up to the heavens and declare loudly and for the neighbors to hear:

“May our love continue to grow, flourish, THRIVE!!! like this mighty oak!”

And as cliché as it is, I do hope we continue to grow, flourish, and thrive like that damn tree. I can’t imagine my life without you, and I thank you for the unending happiness and sense of security you give to me and our kids. I think I’ll keep you for at least another seven years.

Love,

Your wife