First of all, what were you thinking? Let's start there. Knowing me, I've probably warned you so many times that I'm crazy and told you that you should take off running in the other direction. But seeing as you put a ring on my finger, you must love the late nights of sobbing and questioning whether or not I want to continue living. You must love my three o'clock a.m. thirst for adventure, even if that adventure is to go find someplace that will sell us ice cream. Because to love me is to love every piece of me, and if you don't I suggest you run.
I never had a lot of faith in marriage. I've seen four fail firsthand. I had to dry my mother's tears before I even knew how to spell divorce. I had to help raise her children before I was even capable of having my own. Marriage to me is just a legally binding contract, something that ends all love and turns it into routine and comfort, a loss of passion for the person you swore to care for forever. So if I'm marrying you, know that it must mean that I trust you, which is a lot harder for me to say then the words "I love you."
Know that every day I'm trying. I know that I'm not happy all the time and I get moody and angry for no reason or fault of your own. I hope that you have learned to quell my mind. I hope you know the tricks that I've taught myself to stop the late night panic attacks, and I hope that you pull me back in when I push you away.
Despite the negative tone of this letter, I'm going to try to make our marriage your source of happiness. I cannot wait to bring children who are small versions of you and me into this world, cannot wait to be sleep deprived and drug to my wits end by tiny humans that you and I created.
I am so excited to see the minivan that I will complain about driving because it makes me look old. I'm so excited to see our son or daughter score their first goal because I know that they'll be soccer players. (Haha sorry, they get it from their mother!). I want to fall asleep next to you, too exhausted from a day of family time to even kiss you, and just wearily say goodnight and to know that it won't matter because I will get to see you when my eyes open the next morning.
I hope I get to see you old and grey, grouchy yet sweet to our grandchildren as they ask you to tell them the story of how you met their grandmother. And I hope that you tell them the story with a huge, goofy smile on your face, the one you were wearing the day that I met you and that you still have that same spark in your eyes when they meet mine.
And when the day comes that one of our sets of eyes does not open, I hope that we will die full, both our hearts and our minds with memories.