One of my favorite things of late has been the celebration of the ordinary Tuesday. Emily Freeman talks about Tuesdays as the smallest day of the week. And every week, there’s a little party on Instagram where a bunch of people snap pictures of the ordinary beautiful and we all enjoy each other’s small moments. (Here’s #itssimplytuesday. At the moment, the feed isn’t entirely representative of normal, because Emily has a book coming out soon-hooray!- and her launch team got it this week, so there are a lot of shots of that. It’s still lovely and wonderful and good for a smile.)
Today, Andrew and I celebrate eleven years of marriage.
Oh, how I love that man.
|Before “selfie” was a word. This a little bit past our first anniversary. I had to scan the thing in, because we’re old and the first several years of our marriage were photographed on film.|
And these later, not-divisible-by-five anniversaries feel a little like Tuesday to me. There’s no newness and no big round numbers. Last year, we celebrated ten with a four-day trip out of town. This year, it’s a simple night away in town. (Somewhere. He’s not told me where yet. The magic still lives.)
Please hear me clearly: I’m not complaining.
Just like Tuesdays have become a favorite because of their ordinariness, I love the smallness of an eleventh anniversary. I love the fact that we’ve had enough years for there to be ordinary anniversaries.
Ordinary is where we live anyhow.
It’s the little things that make life and the little things that make a marriage.
Quiet not-quite-awake workday mornings.
Not-at-all quiet Saturday mornings, when the kids are up before we want them to be, and asking for Daddyday breakfast. (This man makes hash browns that have ruined me for any other hash browns, period.) Better get them fed before somebody gets hangry.
Holding hands in the dark while we try to stay awake long enough to pray together.
All those times I get thirsty right after I settle in to nurse a baby and he gets up to get me my water bottle. (Usually without snarkiness.)
More than half a lifetime’s worth of inside jokes. (We were friends long, LONG before we got married.)
Talking in code or spelling to sneak stuff past our kids. “I was thinking we could go for I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M tonight after dinner. What do you think?” This is rapidly losing effectiveness.
Doing dishes. Lots and lots of dishes. Sometimes he, sometimes I, sometimes we.
Brief back scratches in passing.
The way he works around my BIG FEELINGS and I work around his sometimes-crazy schedule.
Reading each other’s faces and tones.
Apologizing for misreading each other’s faces and tones.
Arguments about nothing. Or the same something eleventy billion times.
Lots of grace to cover (and frequently avoid!) arguments about nothing.
Choosing to be on the same side, over and over and over again.
Learning to give the benefit of the doubt.
Diapers. Thousands of them.
Rubbing off each other’s rough edges.
Growing up together.
For better and for worse. Until death do us part.
This marriage thing. It’s a good, good gift. By God’s grace, we’re getting better at it. We’re living the dream, Andrew. I love our very ordinary life.
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