Happy Anniversary!

For each anniversary, Matt and I alternate who writes a letter about our year and who plans a date for us. This year, it was my turn to right the letter:

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Dearest Matt,

Has it already been six years already? Each day with you is too fast. Especially these days. I never feel like I get to talk to you enough (dinner time is so chaotic and then it's a mad dash to the bath and to bed). I still crave your conversation and your listening ear. 

What a year. We keep saying that every year, don't we? Last year at this time, we had a new baby in our arms. We didn't really think we were going to go down the path of second-time parenthood, but I'm so glad we did. Tater is so sweet, and our family really does feel more full and more complete. 

We did it. We made it through that hardest year with an infant. And I threw opening a school into the mix. And we moved into a new home. 

Why do we keep doing this? 

I see glimpses of it. When you and I cuddle on our IKEA sectional on the deck, I know why we've done this. We've pushed through all the hard stuff to get to the top of the summit. We're honestly almost there. Meaningful work, a beautiful home, friends, two sweet children, our trusty bloodhound, our families. Each other. I really couldn't ask for anything else. I seriously have it all. I just want to hold all of it so tightly in my arms and never let any of it go.

I just hope you know just how lucky I am that I got to partner up with you for life. I don't always show it. I get busy. I get frustrated. I focus on something you've done wrong instead of the gazillion things you've done right. You deserve more. You always inspire me to be more. You are so full of light and joy. I am so lucky that our paths crossed. I'm so fortunate we turned a potentially fleeting encounter into permanence. 

You are my very center. You hold me when everything is spinning too fast or too much. I couldn't do any of this without you. I mean that so sincerely and without any hyperbole. I love you. I am lucky you love me, too. 

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