Seven years.

Saturday will be the celebration of the 7th year of my marriage. With my husband.

Seven years. Some good. Some bad. Some incredible. Some flat out hell-ish.

Seven years of school (cumulative). Seven times of moving. 7 Christmases. 7 Halloweens. 1 beautiful little girl to take care of.


They say there's a 7 year itch. [Oh- and by the way, I'd like to know who these "They" people are. They seem to say a lot of things.] But I think that for us it was a 1, 2, 4, 5 and 6 year itch.

Lucky for us, we have become really good at scratching our itches. And I think that we've finally learned to be itch-free. Or rather- we've learned to apply anti-itch cream right away.

He has finally learned that the best phrase to use when my monthly visitor is in town is "yes, dear."


And I have learned that boys will be boys. And even if I find his potty humor totally immature and stupid, it's part of his cute boy-ish charm.

We've learned to communicate. Like when I'm all pissed off at him because he is being a dumb boy now I actually tell him I'm bugged instead of just stomping around the house waiting for him to take the hint and either (a) say to me "Oh, what's wrong, honey? Can I rub your feet?", or better yet (b) just fix it because he should know what's wrong since he's the one who caused the problem, dammit! But that was the old itchy me.

We both try to be less selfish. Try.

He has learned that sometimes women need to talk. And talk. And rant. And talk. And all he needs to do is listen. Which doesn't involve advice-giving.

And for this 7th anniversary, now that we finally get along, we are doing something special. Like going to Hawaii. So we will be celebrating this momentous occasion on the warm sandy beaches of Oahu and Kauai. Where there is no itchiness involved.

I love you, J.
I'm glad we never gave up.