I do. I totally still do.

For our first anniversary, we got each other tickets to the playoffs and ate year-old cake. (Dodgers vs. Cubbies…*sigh* the good ‘ol days.)

For our second anniversary, I was nine months pregnant, and we ordered dinner from a local italian restaurant and uh…tried to induce labor, if you know what I mean. (obviously you do.  you’re not 12.)   Nine days later, we got each other a baby.

But this year, I’m kind of at a loss.   What do I get a man to commemorate a year which forced him to live up to every. single. word. he said to me on the beach that day?   How do you thank a man who fought off his own darkness with one arm while he carried you through your all-encompassing, no-room-for-his-darkness, dark place with the other?   What do you say to a husband with whom you’ve weathered a storm the likes of which neither of you ever imagined facing just three short years ago, when you ran into the ocean in your wedding gown, drunk with happiness, all the promises of giddy teenage kisses finally coming true.    How do you bottle up all of the admiration and gratitude for him you’ve been failing miserably to express all year long and put it into words?

You can’t.   Because there are no words in the English language big enough to encompass it.

But there are a few in the Hebrew language that sum it up nicely.  (OMFG, I am about to get a little bit religious on you guys.  This is so unexpected of me.  But it’s happening…)

Ani L’Dodi, v’Dodi Li

{I tried to post the Hebrew here but the Internet wasn’t having it.}*

Chances are you’ve heard these words before.   I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.

This year challenged the meaning of that phrase.   Because up until this year, it seemed our union had been charmed.   We’d shared happiness.   We’d shared joy.   We’d shared success.   But this year, we shared so much more than that.  And when I stopped being able to hold up my end of ANY bargain, he didn’t complain.   He was tired and sore and road weary and all of those things too, but he just kept on.    Kept on keeping the house together.   Kept on keeping all of us fed.   Kept on stepping up time after time to take Delilah so I could melt-down for a minute or two…never asking for a minute or two to lose control in return.   He carried me.   He kept us from collapsing in on ourselves.  Because I am his beloved.   And he is mine.

When we said those words under the chuppah on our wedding day, when I listened to my catholic husband muddle through the Hebrew with a crooked grin because he knew it was important to me,  I had no concept of how much meaning they’d come to hold.   

This year I realized that the sixteen year old boy I fell in love with all those years ago has somehow, before my very eyes, transformed into a man.   Scott and I have spent the last twelve years growing up together, and this year forced us to do the most growing yet.  And now he’s added Father to the list of things he’s freaking amazing at, and even though I truly thought I couldn’t possibly have loved him any more than the day we said I do?  I DO. Every day.

Scott and I circa 1999 in a project by Sara, and Scott last week, ruling at fatherhood.

To see a slideshow from our wedding day, click HERE.

And also, I came across this picture while looking for the one above, and it made me laugh because I’m pretty sure this is us trying to look sexy and romantic, so here you go:

*(If you’re trying to place it, Victoria Beckham [unfortunately] has the Hebrew tattooed on her scrawny neck…)

Also, because I’m a sap, I’ve added the video we made, which was shot by our guests on Super 8 cameras we handed out (thanks guests!) and also by Sean who is awesome.

Oh, and go visit our genius wedding photographer Leigh Miller who is still putting up with me three years later.

Feed Me Seymour