Eight years ago today, I stood at the altar in an ivory princess gown exchanging vows with the man God intended just for me—I don’t think I fully realized at the time just how blessed I was.
He lets me be me, even while shaking his head at my silly antics. He puts up with my shit, encourages me, forgives my mistakes, makes me laugh, gives me grace, deals with my double standards and makes me fall for him over and over again.
He’s the husband I’d always hoped for—the guy who doesn’t mind my feminist side, and doesn’t see male and female “roles,” but looks at me as a partner in everything we do.
He’s a great dad, and makes me strive to be a better mom.
And even on the days he’s pushed my last button and I think I might lose my shit on him, I still love him more than I ever thought I could love a man.
Happy anniversary, hun. I love our life.