This morning, after the breakfast rush:
Sir Monkeypants: Oh hey, by the way, happy anniversary.
Me: What? That’s tomorrow.
Sir Monkeypants: [eye roll]
Me, thinks it over: Cripes, you’re right. Happy anniversary!
Sir Monkeypants: I know we have never been big celebrators of the anniversary thing, but I think we have sunk to a new low.
Agreed. This is number 19. Even our very first wedding anniversary – spent in separate countries, he was away for work – was more romantic than this. Today’s activities include grocery shopping and laundry, supervision of a Scouts field trip in the evening, the slim hope of squeezing in shoe shopping. I’ll be trapped at home waiting for the hot water repair guy. He’ll be having a usual work day, then rushing home in time for me to rush out to Scouts. He’ll put the girls to bed while I go door-to-door in the rain. Maybe we’ll have time for a chat over a cup of tea just before bed.
I love our life and I love our family and I used to think there was no need to celebrate our ordinary happiness. But now I think that 19 years of love and laughter and having someone take your side when the kids are being jerks is worth a major celebration. I absolutely could not do this without Sir Monkeypants. I could not be here, could not take it, could not survive it.
Nineteen years, and he’s still putting up with the way I talk over every single movie and TV show, the way I never put anything in the dishwasher, and the way I continue to balk at any new activity or suggestion of change. He’s a good guy.
Next year, 20. My mother last week mentioned this upcoming milestone and I was all, “Yeah! We’ve actually been thinking…of maybe getting takeout.” And we both laughed, but it’s time to get serious. Twenty deserves a party. Hell, every day deserves a party. But I promise, next year at least, I’ll be better.