It’s David’s birthday today, which means that he turns the same age I did three and a half years ago. Sweet kid, my husband.
I’ve told him before that I think he was insane for marrying me at the age he did–he was only 23 on our wedding day (I was a couple weeks shy of 27, which seems young to me, too, now that I’m sooo much older and wiser). A baby, he was. When I was twenty-three I had absolutely no clue what was going on with my life. I am hoping he had more of a solid idea at that age than I, since, you know, he was all pledging his eternal love and whatnot. But he loves me. That’s pretty cool.
David cleans bathrooms on Saturday mornings, and makes sure the stainless steel on the fridge and oven are spotless, a little because he thinks it’s right to share the work, and a lot because he wants his daughters to see that household chores aren’t assigned by gender. He comes home from work, puts his bag on the ground, and drops down on the floor to give the girls “airplane” rides on his legs. He irons: all of his clothes, every day, no matter the occasion. He works constantly, sitting down at the computer again after the kids are in bed, working, working. He has the pressure of provider now, and he’s shouldering it with more dedication than Michael Phelps eating those 5,000-calorie-a-day meals in preparation for the Olympics.
He watches “Once Upon a Time” with me every week, though he’ll tell you that it being created by the people behind “Lost” is what makes it intriguing. He reads fiction that, to me, looks like work. He’s finishing up Atlas Shrugged right now so he can get to 1Q84, because he seems to shun novels that are under 1,000 pages long. He’s a math whiz, but is an amazing artist. He builds fireplace mantles from scratch, and will argue politics with me until I give up in frustration. He dives immediately into a pool instead of testing the water first. He has the best laugh I think I’ve ever heard.
I love that he loves me. I mean, he totally, really, does. He has been the most encouraging, supportive person I could have ever had the dumb luck to meet. If I saw myself the way David sees me, I’d be the cockiest a-hole you’ve ever met. Seriously. Obnoxious.
And I love him, too, but you knew that already. On some days, it drives me nuts that he can think so differently (I just typed “wrong” there. Oops!) from me on political issues. It makes me batty that he’ll clean up all of the dishes, wipe down the counters, and invariably leave one–just one, always something that needs to be refrigerated–item on the counter after he’s all finished. I wish he liked desserts that weren’t just chocolate, and pasta that had something other than red or alfredo sauce on it.
Isn’t that silly?
It’s his birthday today. On our first date, when I opened up my apartment door, the first thing I noticed about him was his smile (it was practically a blind date, so bear with me, here). Huge grin, happy eyes. The fact that he was tall, and athletic, and had a crazy-huge brain under that short hair of his were realizations that came to me, fortunately, shortly afterward. But it was his smile that got me. It still does.
Tonight there will be a gaggle of young women surrounding him to celebrate. I’ll let you guess how this is both similar and very different to his birthday about ten years ago or so. There will be dinner, and a cocktail, and homemade cake (I accidentally doubled the amount of sugar in the thing, so wheee-hoo, it’s gonna be a party!). There will be gifts wrapped by a four-year-old, and a house that will have strangers trooping through it, deciding whether or not to buy it, while we are out. He has a few gray hairs sprinkled through that head of hair (and of course it looks great, because dudes have it so easy) now, but the smile’s still there, especially when his family’s around him.
I love him. It’s his birthday. Happy Monday, everyone.
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