Eight is the number of years this man has called me wife.
Eight seems like forever and no time at all.
Lots of people think that the rush of falling in love is the best part but I whole-heartedly disagree. This. This right here is my best part. I’ll take this over falling in love all over again any day.
I’ll take every tear shed.
I believe him when he rubs my back and tells me it’ll be okay. When he surprises me with his thoughtfulness. When I am overwhelmed and he carries the burden.
I’ll take every laugh.
The little ones that come just from a cocking of the eyebrow in the way he knows that gets me. Those belly laughs when I can’t breathe and nearly fall off the bed. The triumph when I get him to really laugh out loud and his amusement when he does the same to me.
I’ll take every surprise.
When what I thought I had figured out changes and I learn something new about him. When he teaches me something new about myself. When he knows my thought before I can speak it.
I’ll take every eye roll.
When he pushes the joke a little too far. When his sarcasm and stubbornness join forces. When I’ve asked the same question just to be really really really sure. When my sense of justice and loyalty rain fire.
I’ll take every annoyed sigh.
When he says yes when I wanted him to say no (or vise versa). When he tells me to wait. When he wins the argument and I… don’t.
I’ll take every familiar touch.
When he grasps my hand it’s confidence and comfort not flirtation. When I can’t sleep until I’ve scooted back into his chest and pulled his arms around me. When I’m so excited he’s mine I hang on like a rabid spider monkey.
I’ll take every kiss.
Our three times to say: I. Love. You.
Always. Because I do.
Eight is not nearly long enough and I hope we never find out what is.
Today we have our (please dear Lord) last IUI, and then we wait to see if eight is our lucky number.