Twelve years ago today I married Matt. I’m still amazed, every single day, that I got to marry him. He is the best man I know. If he were here instead of on a business trip, he would be doing the dishes right now. Or maybe ironing. Or folding baby laundry. Or reading me something funny from the Wall Street Journal.
That makes it sound like I gauge his worth based on the amount of housework he does. And I guess I kind of do, a little. It’s an area in which he constantly shows me how much he loves me. I’m always grateful for the way he helps me stay on top of the chaos that is my house. I am grateful for his deep, deep goodness. I am grateful for the unselfish way he seeks to make my life better. And he’s witty to boot.
My sister recently celebrated her anniversary too, and she said on her blog, “I hope I don’t mess it up.”
That is exactly how I feel. Time has only made me more aware of Matt’s solid, essential kindness. I hope that I don’t mess it up, that I get to be happily married to this man forever.
And now it’s off to the dishes again. Since he’s not here to do them for me.
(p.s. I had a baby, who was in the NICU, and I have not read anything much for the last three months. Instead I have watched Netflix streaming on the ipad while feeding the baby. All the reviews I planned to do, including ones for three books I did read, have not happened. I have extreme baby brain, by which I mean that I repeat myself, forget things I intended to say, and am frequently incoherent. So the ambitious plan is at a standstill, at least until I can regularly get eight hours of sleep a night again.)