Our anniversary was actually Friday but that night was spent bowling and eating at CiCi's in celebration of Dea's birthday. Nothing really says romance more than bowling a 48 and eating at a pizza buffet. I do enjoy the Diet Coke at CC's, though. I'm not gonna lie.
The sweetest thing was Thursday when, in front of several of his staff, Trey put his arm around me and said, "Tomorrow, I get to celebrate 15 years of being married to this beautiful woman." For reasons totally known to both of us, he has blocked out an entire year of our marriage. It was year one. And it was not pretty, friends. Not pretty at all. In fact, I remember meeting other newlyweds and being convinced they were totally lying when they said their first year of marriage was absolute bliss. I may have even screamed "LIAR" to their faces once or twice.
I somehow stopped getting their Christmas cards shortly afterward.
Anyway, the Lord has a funny way of taking all our expectations and 'I deserves' and flipping them on their tails only to show us His way is better, and more beautiful, and stronger than we could have ever imagined.
So last night, when I almost cut my finger off opening a bottle of wine - don't ask, I never said I was coordinated - and I got a little lightheaded, I looked right at Trey and he knew he'd better take charge or his bride was going down. I can deal with a lot of gross stuff but for some reason, deep cuts to my own appendages make me all whoozy and light-headed. Once I sliced my finger deep opening a package of bacon - I also never promised you I was a healthy eater - and the only person around was a 6'3" teenage basketball player named Ollie who almost fainted himself. I personally think it was more over the realization that he wouldn't be getting breakfast anytime soon rather than my gushing wound.
Speaking of breakfast, how's your's treating ya right about now?
Anyway, my husband of 16 years took the corkscrew from my hand, took me upstairs, doused me with Bactine - even blew on it so it wouldn't sting, and bandaged me up.
Unfortunately, I didn't have any bandaids which begs the question, "What kind of mother doesn't have bandaids?"
This one. My excuse? The last box I bought was emptied in 6 minutes by children wanting to look like they'd been to war. 'Cause when you're facing automatic weapon enemy fire, you're sure hoping your medic has some Dora bandaids on hand.
That's when Trey got all resourceful on me and got 'er done with some paper towels and duct tape. I like the fact that he sometimes uses miscellaneous household objects to mend his family instead of rushing them to the E.R. Graham has an ever so slight scar to prove it just at his hairline. One summer evening, he hit his head on an electrical box at a baseball game and Trey super glued the cut together, patted him on the shoulder and said, "There you go, buddy, now let's get back in that game."
He doctors us all with nary a wince, or getting all queasy and weak-stomached, or making fun of me for my ability to inflict serious, serious injury upon myself with a dull object.
That, folks, is love.