Last week, Mike and I celebrated being together nine years. (eight, seven, six, five, four) (He really thought I'd stop talking about our dating anniversary once he married me but sometimes even Mike underestimates my dedication to nostalgia.)
If you had told us nine years ago, on that first night when we were--fine--drunk and awkward and nervous, that we'd be celebrating nine years together with a trip to the pediatrician's office and then an imaging office for chest x-rays for our nearly four-year-old son (spoiler: Kyle is doing better, but I officially hate croup as much as I used to), I would have probably thought you were very specifically lying and then I would go ahead and ask you what we decided to name him, that boy, and also what color his hair turned out to be.
These kids, they had no idea they'd make their own kid, their own life, their own fun together.
We had no idea nine years ago...
Okay, maybe a little bit of an idea. We weren't nervous for nothing.