At midnight, Robbie and I marked our anniversary with the following exchange:
"Robbie, are you ever coming to bed?"
"Yeah, I'm just flossing."
"Oh, ok. Bring the nasal aspirator with you when you come upstairs."
"The nasal aspirator...the snot sucker for the baby."
And End Scene
Seven years ago, it was a gray and wet Leap Day in Utah. We spent the morning digging my car out of a snow bank, then we hit the road with a sparkly polyester wedding dress and Robbie's crushed velvet tux hanging in the backseat. As we merged onto the freeway headed for Las Vegas, I popped in a CD so we could sing "Going to the Chapel" at the top of our lungs. Somewhere in the middle of the southern Utah desert, Robbie called his mom to tell her he had been dating this girl named Cassi for the past two weeks. He thought it was best to introduce us considering the phone call he would be making to her later on that night.
In our 22-year-old minds, we thought we were going to pull off the greatest practical joke ever. Seven years and three kids later, turns out the joke was on us.
Sucking snot out of a small child at 1am is certainly a far cry from sucking down cocktails the size of a small child in Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville at 1am. But either way it's painful to get out of bed the next morning.
Happy Anniversary dear!