Every four years, my husband and I have an anniversary. Whether we need it or not.
This is that year. And this is that day.
We were married on the first (or fourth) anniversary of our first official date, which had been Leap Day, 1992. So, ever so coincidentally, our 1996 wedding day was also Leap Day.
We eloped, because at least some of our children--his, mine, and ours, ranging in age from 19 to almost 3--would almost certainly have acted out seriously, negating the thrill of a day on which we had spent too much money, and in which we had invested too much emotion.
We kept the whole thing to ourselves for a month.
In the sixteen years since, we've weathered more than our share of storms. Our friendship is intact, the embers of our romance can still respond to some fanning, and in this beleaguered second marriage for both of us, neither of us has contemplated divorce.
We deserve to celebrate.
If it weren't for my NaBloPoMo pledge, I'd take the day off blogging. Instead, I'm concluding my February challenge, 29 days of posting, and four or sixteen years of marriage with a toast to my best love.
I'd do it all--well, most of it--over again.