Okay, so can I just tell you that Twitter is killing my blog? All summer long I twittered and tweeted and barely wrote a darn thing here. It was a crazy busy summer and I really didn’t have time for more than 140 characters at a time. I felt a little writer-ish, though, with a (kind of dorky) article in a local magazine, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss this particular forum for my random thoughts.
So today, I am going to talk about this.
Which is the breakfast Jack made for my and Whit’s anniversary. (There’s lettuce in the fruit salad. Because, "It’s a SALAD, Mom.") So, the anniversary. Which is today. (Which you would already know if you followed me on Twitter.) And no, I’m not going to write a post about how you’d better lock up your second-grade daughters because my son is eventually going to slay them with that sweet and thoughtful personality. And no, I’m not going to write an ode to my husband of 14 years and publicly tell him he is my Prince Charming and I wouldn’t change a thing. Rather, I’m going to rewrite our wedding vows.
This is what should have been said:
I, Julie, take you, Whit, for better or for worse. And by better, I mean I’ll still love you on the days we find out we’re going to have a baby or on the days we get jobs or I get published somewhere exciting. I’ll love you on the days I have a good run or make a good dinner or tell a funny joke or decorate a room that looks really cute. I’ll love you when we close on a house or take a great vacation or sit on the beach at sunset, sipping wine and counting our blessings. I’ll love you when there’s plenty of money in the bank and our whole family is healthy and the kids get good grades and score Olympic-worthy soccer goals and you bring me coffee in bed.
But, here’s the kicker.
I said I’ll take you for worse, too, and the worse might really suck, so my fingers might be crossed. (Okay. FINE. Uncrossed now.) I’ll love you when I have miscarriages. I’ll love you when you or I lose a job we really need. I’ll love you when I am so irritated you haven’t cut the grass/taken out the trash/moved the laundry upstairs I could scream. I’ll love you when you leave crumbs all over the counter I just wiped. I’ll love you as your ever-widening bald spot ever widens or your body breaks down for no logical reason. I’ll love you when my mom dies and I decide life does, really, bite. I’ll love you when you’re crabby and you’re pessimistic and you’re critical. I’ll love you when you don’t tell me I look pretty or a tree falls on our house or I’m really sad or I decide you’re just a pain in the ass. I’ll love you, even when you don’t seem like you love me so much. I’ll love you, no matter what.
I, Whit, take you, Julie, as my wife. I’ll celebrate your accomplishments and support you when you want to try something new. I’ll love you when you run errands for me or leave me a sweet note in the suitcase I’m packing for a business trip. I’ll love you, even if your phlegmy dad moves into our basement or I decide all your siblings need to be committed to either Betty Ford or a mental institution. I’ll love you even when you get your feelings hurt and cry hysterically and get snot all over me. I’ll love you when you let the dog sleep under the covers, and I’ll love you when you make me carry him up the stairs because you’re scared he can’t make it. I’ll love you when I have to do inane whole-house "murderer checks" before I go on a business trip or when you bitch at me for not answering my cell phone. I’ll love you, even when you don’t seem like you love me so much. I’ll love you, no matter what.
That would have been a more realistic view of what the next 14 years had waiting for me. And that would have given me the secret to making it 14 years: love, no matter what. Love, in the sucky times. "No matter what" belies the tough times, and the strength and the sense of humor one needs to get that far.
Piece of cake? Not always. Worth it? Always.
So babe? Happy anniversary. No matter what.