Thirty one years ago today, my mother-in-law huffed and puffed her youngest son into existence. That's right, dear internet, it's my husband's birthday.
In honor of such a holiday, I am dedicating this post to Boo, my man. When you were six and you wore that horrible brown and orange striped shirt and insisted I sit on the horse with you, you loved me. It didn't matter to you that I wanted to sit with your older, cuter brother. You just made me hold on tight.
When you were 15 and you hammered my last nail into the post that I asked you not to, you loved me. It didn't matter to you that I hurled said hammer at you with the intent of killing you. You merely ducked.
When you were 17 and my mother asked you to be my date for my prom, you loved me. It didn't matter to you that I refused to dance with you and barely talked to you all evening. You smiled anyway.
When you were 18 and the officer wanted to know if the lady in the backseat, without her shirt on, was alright, you loved me. It didn't matter to you that the big ole' man had a Billy club to your chest and a flashlight in your face. You learned to pick a more remote spot for our make out sessions.
When you were 21 and you walked down the aisle to say "I do", you loved me. It didn't matter that you were marrying in to the most dysfunctional family you ever met. You were happy to become the zoo keeper.
When you were 30 and I told you our son died, you loved me. It didn't matter that our world shattered in the beat of a heart, you held my hand and wiped my eyes. You soldiered on for me, and our kids.
I don't know what the next 31 years will bring, and to be honest, I don't care. Because as long as I have you by my side, kicking and screaming, I can handle anything. I love you Boo. Always have. It just took me a few years to know it.
Happy Birthday big guy. If you play your cards right, Mr. Pickle might be allowed to come out and play.