Yesterday I spent most of the morning moping and feeling sorry for myself. I complained to my sister on the phone and then spent quite a few minutes sitting on the floor, my forehead resting on the ottoman, feeling sad that my anniversary would not include this:
or a trip to Paris with my love,
or even a nice dinner out with just the two of us because we can't leave cutie-pie-cry-face with a teenager without an intense amount of worry.
He came home for lunch. He walked right in the door looking so very handsome. He twinkled his eyes at me, happily wished me a happy anniversary, and held me close while the kids pulled at our pant legs for attention.
And right then I was instantly happy. I didn't mind that we aren't at a point where we have money to spend on extravagant trips or gifts and our kids are too small to allow us many nights out. Because I've had him for eight years now, and I'll have him for the rest of my life and beyond and I actually get butterflies when I think of spending forever with him.
I love you, my darling. You have made this the happiest 8 years of my life, hands down.