Whenever Mike and I are asked how old we are, we say, "Too young." And a part of me really feels that way. Sometimes I remember my age and I'm stunned by where I am and what I'm doing. I'm a wife? I'm a mother? So we always welcome birthdays at our house. It means we're one year less weird for being married with a child.
When I asked Mike what he wanted for his birthday he said the only thing he wanted was to go on a bike ride. A long one with some hills and pretty views and me and Ada. For at least an hour. I admit I was reluctant. The aches in my joints were warning me I was coming down with something, but he held the birthday trump card so as soon as we found a break in the drizzle, we loaded up and headed out.
I never wrote him a card, so instead I told him my card as we strolled through the portici. "I love you for the way you still find time to make Ada and I the most important thing in your day, even though I know how busy you are. . ." Nothing I said felt like it fit right after I said it. I love all those things about, it's true. And I was trying to be genuine but the list of things he does and is and means that I enumerated seemed superficial compared to what I wanted to get at.
My close friend posted about love
a few days ago. Her post articulated exactly what I was feeling as Mike
and I walked home from our night out, but what I was not able to
adequately put into words. I love the "absolute singularity" of him (though I confess that I'm still learning what that means and why I love it. I'm finding more and more that love evolves so much as it deepens).
I love Michael because he's Michael. He's mine. For always.