Eight Days a Week

Ooh I need your love babe,
Guess you know it's true.
Hope you need my love babe,
Just like I need you.
Hold me, love me, hold me, love me
Ain't got nothin but love babe
Eight days a week.

Eight days a week
I love you
Eight days a week
Is not enough to show I care.

I need your love babe
Eight days a week.
                           -- THE BEATLES

Happy EIGHT years, dear! I cannot believe that eight married years and three dating years ago, I didn't think it could get any better than this:

But it did. And you did. And it does. And you do. Oh, it does, and so do you: 

 

Happy Anniversary to the man who makes me feel the best me I can ever be.  Every morning waking up next to you, I know that no matter what happens in the day, all is well in my heart. All is well in our love. The day we got married, I never thought I could love you more than I did back then. But I do. Oh, do I. It may be eight years later, but I love you so much more than eight times more.  Love is not linear. It's explosive.  My love for you explodes each and every day. With each sly little grin where your lips don't part, you tuck your chin into your chest, and you barely shake your head, my heart explodes again. 

I rose early this morning to go to the gym. I fought it, and I pressed snooze a couple of times on the alarm clock so that I could pretend to sleep through it. But I laid in bed, awake, battling my will.  Not wanting to get up, but knowing I'd feel better at the end of the day if I just went.  I finally rolled out of bed, decided I was crazy, and forced my way into the gym.  As I was walking into the gym at 4:50 am, I saw a man walking out of the gym. Then I realized, it was not me who was crazy, but that man who had gotten up so early to work out that he was already leaving the gym at 4:50am was crazy.  As I walked into the double glass doors and turned the corner, I saw that man walking back into the gym.  Alas, he was not crazy, he had just forgotten his iPod.  I headed upstairs to the bright flourescent lights and the hum of the machines. After I had squeezed the last drop of sweat out of my body, it was time to return home to the sleeping husband and children to shower in peace and prepare the coffee for my husband of now EIGHT YEARS and breakfasts for the kids.  As I opened the door and stepped my shaky leg into the kitchen, I then realized who really was the crazy one. 

He is crazy for me.  He is crazy enough to set his alarm so that he could get up and set these beautiful red roses out right at the door so that when I returned my exhausted and smelly body into our home, I would be rejuvinated and refreshed.  The very first thing I did when I saw them was smile. And like any other woman, the very next thing I did was bend over and take a big breath in of the delicious rosiness eminating from the vase.

And the next thing I did was marvel at the card.  Am I the only one who stares at her husband's handwriting? I love it. I love the character that arises from the style. What is written, and what he was thinking while he wrote it.  Maybe I truly am the crazy one. 

Yes, I am crazy for you.  These have been the best eight (eleven) years of my life.  I would do it all again over and over and over and over again.  Getting married to you was, by far, the best decision I have ever made.  Thank you for loving me so much.  Thank you for accepting my love.  If there were eight days in a week, I still would not have time to show you how much I have loved you in eight years. I look forward to the rest of the years. I cannot imagine the wonder of what is to come.  That is the beauty of it.  You still amaze me.