The man I married is, even as we speak, sitting on the floor with our baby, teaching her how to bang a spoon on a metal bowl.
The man I married isn’t afraid to change a poopy diaper, feed the baby a bottle or walk the floor with her at 2 a.m.
The man I married brings me flowers for no reason. Cooks me chicken noodle soup when I’m sick. And scratches my head when I’m tired and stressed out.
The man I married knows when I need to sleep in. Knows when I need to tune out. And doesn’t begrudge me my book buying habit.
The man I married cooks like a gourmet chef, draws like a professional illustrator and sings…well actually, he doesn’t sing all that well, but when he does, it’s heartfelt.
The man I married serenaded me in front of our high school senior class, proposed to me in a mall, and announced our engagement to my parents while they were eating dinner (my dad choked).
The man I married thinks I’m beautiful even when I don’t (and that’s most of the time).
The man I married believes in my wildest dreams, lifts me up when my spirits sink and never gives up on me—even when he should.
The man I married is my soul mate, my partner and my best friend.
Long story short? I’m awfully glad to have spent the last eleven years of my life with the man I married.
Happy Anniversary, Pookie Bear.
For a slightly more eloquent ode to my husband, go read my Valentine’s Day post. Today, the baby’s teething, we’re both low on sleep, and I’m not exactly at my best.