I thought my husband might be a little irritated with me when I didn’t follow him into the fray this past Saturday morning. Our two little early risers had scrambled through the dark to get to our room, rubbing their eyes and asking, “Is it morning yet?”
Technically, it was, though the sun wouldn’t rise for more than two hours.
Vince got up and and took them downstairs to get them breakfast and organize their day. I rolled back over and thought about how deliciously comfortable pillows and blankets can be on cold winter mornings.
Shamelessly, I snuggled in and began the important work of figuring out the day’s Wordle.
Another spouse might have groused a little at my lassitude. Mine made me strawberry pancakes and hauled them up to me so I could eat them in bed.
For nearly four decades he’s been that way, the guy who will reach his hand into my farm boots before I pull them on to make sure no critters have nested there; warm up all the cars in the driveway on frigid winter mornings; retrieve my phone without comment when I’ve misplaced it for the millionth time.
He’s a good egg.
Yesterday we celebrated our 36th wedding anniversary and talked about how good these years have been. We’ve learned that the most special times are the ordinary ones — cracking up because someone in our house said or did something hilarious; setting the table for family dinner; road tripping to nowhere but enjoying the ride; grilling salmon in the middle of the week; taking a random run down the sled hill across the street.
Vince played sheepshead yesterday afternoon in a group that included a man who had been married for 73 years.
So, now we have a record to break.
