Eight years, four cities, three kids, and 627 pancakes

          We have these friends who, every month, celebrate their monthiversary together.  They go out every single month for the same cuisine they had on their very first date.  For the last ninety-two months.  It’s very romantic, in a Visa commercial kind of way. 

            It’s also pretty funny for those of us here in the cheap seats.

            You see, I cannot imagine actually going out with my husband once a month.  Hell, I’d settle for being in the same city once a year on our anniversary.  Or maybe every other year; no sense aiming too high.

            My favorite was 2004, our third anniversary. I was five months pregnant with Zachary, and I had bleeding the night before, so the doctor had me stay overnight in the hospital as a precaution.  Hence, I spent my third anniversary in a hospital room in Philly while my husband was stranded on a business trip in Nevada.  It was sort of like a candlelit dinner except with crappy food, fluorescent lights, and a monitor on my belly.

            I am supposed to be upset that we are not together for our anniversary, according to Them, whomever They might be.  But, pray tell, at whom shall I get upset?  My husband, who is away from his family, working late nights, in order to support us?  Or perhaps the structure of corporate America?  Or maybe the clients who have the gall to be located at a distance?

            Truth be told, I am not upset.  Romance is not hinged on some arbitrary date that is only our anniversary by the standards of the Gregorian calendar, which anyway is off by something like 26 seconds each year.  Who cares if we are not together each year on the 20^th of May? 

            Romance is J hanging out the wash, even though he would rather use the drier, because I want to conserve electricity.  Romance is him taking my car to be washed because he knows I will never get around to it and it hasn’t rained in Los Angeles since three days after the Spanish Inquisition.  Romance is putting on a new toilet lid that does not bang down before our au pair arrived because he doesn’t want her to wake me up if she uses the bathroom in the night.  Most of all, romance is still laughing together, albeit mostly at our children.

            J will tell you I am the least sentimental person out there.  He, on the other hand, cries at Kleenex commercials (and every time he watches An Officer and a Gentleman).  I think this post proves the contrary. Clearly, I am totally the mawkish type, oozing the schmaltz all over the internet.

            So, happy anniversary, honey.  We made it past the seven-year itch.  Don’t forget to call the cable company.