Twelve years ago we ate cheeseburgers and watched the fireworks and you asked me to marry you.

Eleven years ago we stood on the rooftop of an Irish pub and sealed the deal.

Last week we celebrated Grady’s eighth birthday. This week we celebrated Poppy graduating out of diapers.

Life is a trip and there’s no one I’d rather be on it with than you.



Nine years ago we stood in a sunbeam on the roof of an Irish pub and agreed to love and support each other through the good stuff, the rough stuff, and the in-between stuff. Nine years ago we had no idea the highs could be so high, or the lows could be so low, or the in-betweenies could be so perfectly mundane. 

There's no one I would rather sip icy gin and tonics with. There is no one I'd rather have backing me as we tackle Mount Laundry and negotiate with Tiny Dictators and dream big dreams and figure out thyroid bullshit and finally, for the love of tacos, clean the clutter off the mothercussin' kitchen counters once and for all. 

I love you but I also really like you. Thank you for nine beautiful years. Here's to many more.



Five years ago we said our vows on the rooftop patio of an Irish bar and then went downstairs and partied all night. We ate burgers and corn on the cob and chocolate cupcakes. We laughed. We drank. We danced. We did not think that in five short years we would have a 2-year old mini dictator and a cancer diagnosis.

So much has changed in five years and nothing has changed in five years. I took so much for granted and now I feel almost bittersweet thinking about Hillary of five years ago. Hillary of five years ago felt like a genuine smile and a dash of enthusiasm could fix anything. Hillary of five years ago was so naive.
I'm almost positive that in another five years I will shake my head and sigh and think the same about Hillary of today.