XIX

If I could re-write our wedding vows and present them to myself to say to you 19 years ago, they’d look like this:

I, Jamie, take you, Big Daddy, to be my husband. To have and hold on to as tight as possible and to freak you out a little bit when I ask you if I can cut you open and get inside you like a TaunTaun because I love you so much from this day forward.

For better and babies and new houses and new jobs and vacations and friends and pets and mornings on the ocean and nights singing in the car and for worse and for every heartbreak and every moment of grief and sadness when I needed to hold on to you to pull me to the other side of what came next.

For richer and times of success and prosperity and just feeling damn good about the people we are and the people we’re raising and for poorer and stupid financial decisions and the money pit in Illinois and the stupid Durango.

In sickness and the times I’ve needed you to grab me by the hand pull me out of my tendencies to let my brain drown me and heath when I’ve come out on top and I can share my victories with you.

Until death do us part and we haunt the earth together in matching sweaters, I will love and honor and respect and like you for all the days of my life.

Because I do. And I did. And I will. Forever and ever. Amen.

Happy 19th, Big Daddy.

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