Three years ago today, we went to the hospital and sat in triage, waiting to find out if our first son was to be born on your birthday. We were so disappointed to find out it wasn't to be. And not because that was our third false alarm and the maternity unit nurses were beginning to know us on a first-name basis.
We were as excited as teenagers on a first date that day, thrilled and scared in equal measures at the idea of becoming parents. And though we knew nothing about babies, somehow we knew we'd be okay. It's the kind of certainty that only comes when something is really good and really real to begin with.
And we were okay. So okay, in fact, that we were back there, in that same triage ward, eighteen months later, tapping our fingers and strolling up and down the corridors in anticipation of our second son.
We've always been much more than okay.
I think it's because we can still laugh together until our stomachs hurt.
And because, when you're gone, I miss you as much as that time nine years ago when you went away for that month-long road trip with your brother.
And that jointly, we've learned to breathe through the difficult times and not let them overwhelm us (or maybe we've increased our drinking tolerance?).
And maybe because being married to me guarantees free massages for life? Heh.
And because there are so many reasons, I'd have to type all day to list them.
Happy Birthday my sweet.