Thirteen years ago later this week, my husband and I said “I do” on a beach less than two miles from where he works today. It was a hot day in August, and both of us were young, and I particularly, fairly naïve.
We’ve been through a lot together in the last thirteen years. We’ve lost a total of three grandparents (all eight were at our wedding.) We’ve had two beautiful kids.
We’ve gone through the bone marrow transplant of our son.
We’ve fought to the point where I was sure one of us would call a divorce lawyer.
But despite it all, despite feeling like the whole world was against us at times, we’ve pushed through.
Thirteen years isn’t much in the grand scheme of things. But it is more than some couples make it these days.
Generally, I feel I can tell my husband anything. He doesn’t always understand how I can be obsessive about a TV show or a movie series or a book series. He doesn’t get the finer points of writing a novel, editing, re-editing, formatting, proofreading, publishing, etc.
But he doesn’t tell me to stop talking about it.
I also don’t get the finer points of his job as a diesel mechanic. But I get enough to shake my head at some of the things he tells me.
We don’t always see eye-to-eye. It would be boring if we did.
But rarely a day goes by when I’m not grateful he’s in my life, that we can fight with our backs together, slaying the dragons the world throws at us.
I hope he’ll always have my back, to be there when I need a shoulder to cry on, to eat chocolate when I want to celebrate (or when I need a boost), to grow old together.
And maybe one day, to even have a glass of wine together.
I love that man with all my heart. I’m glad he’s my partner in life.