13 Years A Little Late

Back at the end of August T managed to break the little table Z made for the boys.


“Is Daddy going to be mad?” was his reaction.

Daddy understands that a pair of boys is one of the most destructive forces in nature. So he wasn’t that mad. He was more resigned. And annoyed he’d have to remake the table. The semester was just gearing up so we both knew it would be a while before a new one was ready.

A couple of days later Z and I celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary with a dinner date. We’ve kind of kept to the traditional anniversary present schedule, although since we’ve become parents it’s been harder and harder to get those presents together by September 3rd. Lace is the gift for lucky year 13 and I left it to the last minute. Lace really isn’t Z’s thing and I couldn’t come up with a good idea. A day or two before the 3rd it hit me-some kind of plant with lace in the name. Enter the black lace elderberry bush. Do you know you can order plants through Amazon? It arrived a couple days late.

black lace elberberry

After hanging out on our counter for a while Z got around to planting it.

He told me he was making my present. The semester really got grooving and I forgot about the present. And the table.

Last night he brought this upstairs.

13 years table

A little bit bigger, a lot stronger, and with a lace doily that I love laser cut into the surface along with the number 13.

table in use

In use this morning.

The table was more than worth the wait.

Z and I don’t have some perfect marriage. When I write about us I worry people will think I’m trying to sell some idealized version of reality. Our marriage is flawed like any relationship. We hurt each other frequently. We drive each other crazy. We let each other down. But we also are committed to working hard on it (Yay therapy!). We don’t take it for granted. Marriage is fragile. We meant till death do us part when we said it. We mean it now. But there are no guarantees. Until we actually get to 10 years in the future we can’t really be sure what will happen then.

All of that said, I love him. I like him. I adore him. I am proud of him. He works so fucking hard, but nine times out of ten he is at home by 5:30pm to have dinner with the boys and me. He is talented and generous. He cares deeply about his professional life and his students. He makes beautiful things with his hands–furniture, instruments, music, treehouses, he sews. He is my friend. He supports and encourages me. Twice a week he leaves work in the middle of the day to pick up T from school so I can take a class. He has promised to figure out how to fit my jogging into our days as long as I can still get my ass in gear to go. He tattooed my image on his body not once but twice. He is hot as hell. He is a feminist. He is loyal. He got me help when I couldn’t help myself. He understands my crazy. He loves me anyway. He is a good man.

z barely putting up with me

I love this picture. The look on his face is priceless–thinly veiled annoyance with a side of “how long is this gonna take?”


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