I fell in love with a boy at 18. He was quiet, kind, sentimental, musical, funny as hell, weird, Mark-McGrath-frosted-tipped.

He had been my best friend for 4 years, and after we dated some other pimple-faced kids, we were like, "hey, you're cool. Wanna go to the movies?" He awkwardly tried to snuggle with me while we watched Pearl Harbor, to which I respond like this:

We spent the next 6 years getting bad haircuts, eating lots of burritos, traveling, moving, working, and changing.

Two days before Christmas, that sweet boy proposed to me. Four months later, we were married in a rustic old church in Fort Collins.

I'll be the first to admit that this year hasn't been our easiest. We argued, we gave each other the cold shoulder, we acted like buttholes. Today, I sit here completely enamored with this man. He has stretched me, made me laugh, made me cry, made me laugh until I cry, bought our family an amazing home that he is now investing his time, blood, sweat & tears into to make this the best place for our littles, he works his ass off, he comes home in a good mood EVERY.FRICKIN.DAY., he loves me unconditionally, he is the one who wants to discuss parenting and how we could be better at being parents, to which, I always roll my eyes, he is kind, he is compassionate, he is empathetic, he is tender-hearted, and that beard. I could go on, but you're grossed out & bored. 

So, today, on the eve of his 31st birthday, I am humbled and honored to be the one standing by his side. If you had told those 14-year-old kids that, 17 years later, we'd have 3 beautiful, perfect children, two of which were twins, we probably would have bolted in opposite directions. But holy shit. I cannot imagine a better life. It's not perfect, but man, is it a total kick in the ass.

I love you to the moon, to the stars & to the skeletons, bae. Happy Birthday, my love.


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