When we were on our family vacation in California last month, we were out all day one day and everyone was exhausted by the time we got back to the hotel. Kyle was so exhausted, in fact, he didn't bat an eye when the car stopped. Mike got him out of his carseat and carried him inside.
As I gathered up beach towels and bags and purses and rogue little boy flip-flops, I watched my husband carry my sleeping son inside. My heart, it caught in my throat.
I wanted to find my camera. I wanted Mike to walk slower. Would pausing time forever be too much to ask?
All I kept saying in my head, over and over, was, Wow, I just really fucking love those two. (The voice inside my head has the same foul vocabulary as I do. I hope you'll forgive it/me.)
One of those two (the older one) has a birthday today--a big birthday at that (35!)--and where I sometimes feel like words are on my side, I never feel like that when it comes to Mike. He's just better and righter and more than all the words.
Still, it's his birthday. It's his day. He deserves a few words.
Happy birthday, Mike.
I just really fucking love you.