Four Years

Four years ago (OK, four years and a day) I went on my first date with a super cute man with a beard and a stinky car.

I broke rule #1 of internet dating, and let him pick me up at my house — I’d give you some spiel about how we lived nearby, and were saving the environment, but I’d be lying. I was just lazy, and a rule breaker. He took me to dinner, where we randomly ran into his best friend’s parents (who I imagine called his parents as soon as they got home to tell them about the beautiful and polite girl Mike just introduced them to).

Like three weeks later, I basically lived with him — mostly because I really liked him, but also because he had central air, and I didn’t.

Then he took me on vacation with his entire family, I moved in for real, we got a puppy and he proposed (first with paper, then the real deal). All in about five months.

Between me and the dog, we’ve broken two pairs of his glasses. We were part of a giant caterpillar for Halloween, and people regularly confuse my husband and my BFF.

We shaved all his hair off once, and only once, because it turns out his head is lumpy (in a cute way).

I’ve made him several meat-themed birthday cakes, including a t-bone and a hamburger. There was an attempt at a taco, but that didn’t really work…

Since then, we planned the best wedding ever, I got stitches for the first time (thanks, wedding invitations!), we got married in the middle of a blizzard, we bought a new house, and expanded our furry family to two puppies.

He has survived living with me while I’m taking fertility drugs, and is more than willing to inject things into my butt (wait… what? you know what I mean), because we both know it’s worth it, and our babies will be freaking adorable.

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