Thursday, July 10, 2014

Dear Evan

Dear Evan,

Four years, 1461 days, 126,444,000 seconds. (I googled that last stat. You know how I am with math. And also, googling. So don't quote me.)

You started off our marriage by tripping in the grass. You almost rolled your ankle and probably almost died but we laughed about it because WE WERE MARRIED and we trotted off together because we were invincible.

I remember not feeling much different as I suddenly made the switch from single to married. I didn't feel any different. You didn't look any different. It was just like a birthday: You're technically a year older but that doesn't mean it happens all at once and you can really, really feel it. It was a gradual thing that we grew into. Because calling you my husband took a lot of practice and then suddenly it didn't and we were married and we had been married for quite some time and there was nothing really new about it anymore.

Except when I think of you I still get butterflies. I still wonder how in the heckfire you decided that you loved me--this stubborn, strong willed, capital B who can't keep the house clean to save her life. I'm still sort of amazed that we haven't killed each other yet because we are mighty competitive in our games of 2-on-2 RISK and you snore like a horse (do horses snore?) and you wake me up at all hours of the night to tell me the most ridiculous stories in your sleep and you take five hundred showers a day and will try on a shirt for exactly one point eight seconds and deem that it is filthy. You drive me crazy in a hundred different ways and then sweep me off my feet a thousand times over.

I wouldn't change a thing about you (except for the snoring part) because you complete me. You are the best father to our son. You're his wrestling mate and punching bag and you give the best tickles. You sing him to sleep and are not afraid to crawl into his crib to comfort him. When you leave the room and Maddox cries for you, he is voicing what my heart aches to say.

I remember always wanting to marry a guy who could a) sing and b) had curly hair. You fit the bill perfectly until you chopped off your hair. I forgive you but know that I would have married you if you were bald and even if you sounded like my Shakira impression when you sang. That's how much I love you. And since you haven't glued my mouth shut, I'm assuming you either really love me OR you really love my Shakira impression. I'll assume it's 50/50 and will continue to sing my heart out. Like Shakira, obviously.

Happy FOUR years, bae. Here's to a million more.


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