Thirteen years ago I married my best friend. We had dated long enough to know what we were getting into. He knew I was a little bit on the roller-coaster-emotional side; I knew he was a bit on the always-on-time side. There were no surprises, except that he didn't like mac-n-cheese (oddly coincidental that my dad also hates mac-n-cheese) and I could never put my shoes where they belonged.
He still doesn't like mac-n-cheese.
I still don't put my shoes where they belong. Or my sunglasses. Or the car keys.
Since the girls were both staying overnight with grandparents on Friday, we celebrated our anniversary a few days early. We had dinner at Baja Fresh, saw "Despicable Me" (funny and kid-friendly, btw), and had frozen custard for dessert. It was fabulous because we were together. Memorable? Probably not so much. Maybe more memorable? The anniversary gift we're giving to each other in the form of having all the bedrooms professionally painted.
Certainly, we've had the fancy anniversary celebrations: the year we went back to Maine; the years we've gone to the beach; the gourmet dinners out. And we've had the non-fancy celebrations: the years we spent writing papers due for our grad classes the next day; the year we saw "Harry Potter" (which I rank as the lamest anniversary ever for reasons beyond just the movie); the year we spent at home staring at our 2-month old daughter.
It's just like our marriage. Sometimes the moments are amazing and memorable and sometimes they aren't. And sometimes you purposefully forget them because maybe they were moments where you didn't shine. It's okay.
I asked Jason if this was the hardest year we've had, what with my severe prenatal depression and his being unemployed. He said no. In fact, he said there haven't been any hard years.
"They've all been good years because things have always been good between us."
When you marry your best friend that's what you get: good years. Lots of them.
All of them.