Dear Husband,

Today you are thirty-five. Not young. Not old. Right in the middle.

And I know you. You will go about your day at the office, doing your thing, smiling your smile, not saying anything. Your friends and colleagues will not know. That today is your day. That many Decembers ago you were born into your good family and your good life. It is not your style to call attention to yourself. It never has been. This is one of the many things I love about you.

And so. Here I am. Filling that gap, that gulf, that calculated quiet, with words. Telling the world, telling you, that you are everything to me. I know that sounds trite, and painfully so, but it is true. And it is a truth that too often gets lost in the existential shuffle, between the holidays and the every-days, between the kids and the cats and the careers, between the renovations and the pregnancies and the cosmic swirl of chaos in which we are fortunate enough to be exquisitely immersed.

As you know, I took the picture above yesterday morning. You were rushing out the door with our red-panted and eager big girl, off to school. As you fiddled with Toddler’s hat and gloves, I told you to pause. And you did. And I snapped away. And here we have it. Evidence of a small moment. A busy morning. Daddy taking his girl to school. The twinkly lights from our small tree reflected in the door. Those stripes. I love you in that sweater, those cozy gray and black lines, prudent and strong, that robust pattern that keeps going, no end in sight. I love this picture already. That you let me take it. I will always look back upon it and say: That was his last day of thirty-four. Toddler was on her last weeks of three. Baby was dancing in the kitchen and I was there, barefoot on wood floors, six months of new life snug inside me, trying – and failing – to stop time.

I used to be scared of getting older. Part of me still is. The thirties are a place that once seemed impossibly removed. But here we are, dancing in this decade of our lives. And as we settle in our new home and wait for our third little girl to join us, I am no longer so shaken. We are where we should be. Muddling through the middle, the middle of this good life we have created, hand-in-hand, together.

Thirty-five. Not young. Not old. A good age. One that becomes you. One that makes me realize my bounty, our bounty: This is it. Our life. Our love. Our years.

And so. Today is the perfect day. To stop. To say it. I love you. Every ounce of you. Every stripe of you. Every year of you.

Happy birthday to my favorite thirty-five year old. My birthday boy. My forever man.

Love,

Aidan

_________________________________________

Do you tell people when it is your birthday? Do you ever snap pictures in an effort to freeze time? Does thirty-five strike you as young or old or somewhere in between? (Per Toddler, it is “a REALLY big number”!) Take a moment and wish my man a happy day!

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