This past weekend was all about the hubbie.
We celebrated our six-year anniversary on Saturday, dropping off the boys at my mom’s and spending rare time together out on the town: a gut-busting binge on chicken tikka and goat curry. Between bites we exchanged triumphant “we made it six years without divorce or murder” smiles and fawned over our boys despite prior pinkie-swearing not to.
Father’s Day was less eventful; Sundays are busy since hubbie is a pastor — not to mention the fact that he hates holidays that place him in the spotlight. But the boys at least made cards, and in the morning Mister whispered: “Mom, I know! Let’s clean the whole house for Father’s Day.” And so we did. Nevermind that we do that every Sunday anyway since church is held in our living room. Mister was adorable, wiping down counters and slithering under the couch to grab stray Hot Wheels, the whole time mumbling “we have to clean up for Daddy.” (Oh, and nevermind that Daddy lent a hand, too.)
I love that we get to raise a family together. I love that he keeps the kids in line with a firm, no-nonsense “Do I have to tickle you?” I love that after six years, eighteen months of pregnancy, and fifteen extra pounds he still calls me beautiful. I love that the boys’ first memories of Daddy will be of his Academy Award-winning grunts and cries from the living room-turned-wrestling ring.
I love that for better or for worse, “for poor or for poorer” as we like to say, this is the man walking by my side on this journey.