Dulywed: Year 9

Poppy,

I'm sorry. When I held your chocolate croissant ransom tonight and made you answer how many years we'd been married before I turned it over to you, I was wrong. I thought it was eight years, but it was only after taking two punitive bites that I realize it's nine. Just think of it as me saving your life with calorie restriction.

This year I actually had to contemplate whether I could save your life. We started this year with you getting some scary swollen lymph nodes on your neck and head. You've had this persistent cough for a few years, and I'd always assumed it was asthma. When those nodes popped up, I was worried. Maybe that cough was something else, something scary, something named Hodgkin's. I started keeping track of your nightly fevers and the dates we went to the doctor for stuff. I tried to take control of something, even if that something is data, because my heart would be in chaos without you in it. One day I had a cathartic cry in my car in the driveway, asking myself what if it is the worst case scenario? Can I handle it? I took stock of myself -- my ability to provide for us financially, my ability to care for you physically, my support system's proximity -- and I felt relieved. I knew that even if you had to go through chemo that put you in a coma, I could carry you up our steps. I could go full time at work and keep our health insurance. I could coordinate help from my mom and yours now that both of them live in our city. I knew I could handle it, and that made me confident that I could get you through it.

Luckily, you got better. Must've just been some pretty intense asthma.

Since then, our year has been awesome. So good that we've wondered aloud when we're going to get our share of the bad luck. I mean, my family has basically disintegrated, your family finally had a mini crisis, but in between those bad-ish times, we've been having a blast. First we went to Turkey and rode in a hot air balloon over one of the most magical landscapes in existence. I cried and you laughed at me. Then we went to the cabin in Yosemite and explored waterfalls with Walt. When it was time to leave, I cried and you laughed at me. Then we went to the Philippines for Bubba's wedding and escaped to Thailand where we rode an elephant and gave it a bath. I may have cried but you'll never know because it was splashy. And a few days ago, you wanted to go to lunch at Indian buffet and I didn't want to put pants on. I cried and you laughed at me. Basically, this year I learned to throw tantrums and they are hysterical. Also, we were characters in a video game and I was promptly shot in the stomach and killed. HILARIOUS.

The thing about all this, about all these 9 years, that I appreciate the most is that we're still laughing. I mean, we're still bitching about dishes and garbage and video games and the toilet paper roll and the last of the soy milk, but our laughing is still going strong. Like the other day when I saw those gray hairs coming out of your chest and pointed and laughed. God, you are so funny when you get old.

I love the ridiculous things that you say, things that have become such a part of our vernacular that I say them to other people without realizing how insane they must sound. Like Triple X Laydowns. You know, that vegging we do on the couch in the pajamas that we change into the second we cross the threshold? The relaxing that's so intense we take the back cushions off? Not one thing sexy about that degree of lazy, but it is called Triple X Laydowns and it is the best part of my day. And your songs. Oh, those ridiculous songs that come out of your mouth before I even open my eyes in the morning. Where does that come from? If I wasn't about to kill you I'd be cracking up with your random playlist performance.

Speaking of performances, well done at the Stein Holding Competition at Oktoberfest this year. Your muscles are great even after all this time.

The gift that comes with nine years is pottery. Or maybe willow. Or possibly wicker. Hallmark can't get it together. I'm going with pottery. It seems like after nine years, if things fall apart, there's likely to be some residual that will persist for civilizations to come. Some lasting remnant that archaeologists will dig up and be like, wow, they weren't as stupid as we thought. When they dig up our graves, which will be together because if you die I'm coming and if I die you'll have no joy left in your life so you'll automatically die, I hope they find our faces frozen in a guffaw. I hope our laughs outlast us. I hope that the silliness, the freedom to be ridiculous and absurd and wonderfully appreciated for it, I hope that lasts forever.

Happy anniversary. I'm not a chicken.

Amber