Not itchy
They say that after seven years together, couples get the seven year itch.
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Tonight. Girls in a MOOD. Post-weekend crabiness. Lucy got a time out for *ppplbt*ing at me after I told her to stop colouring for dinner. Alice grabbed at the hot stove, emptied three kitchen drawers and pitched the HUGEST tantrum (at my feet in front of said hot stove among the contents of said drawers) when I refused to dole out another cup of milk.
(Now I’M in a mood. And yelly.)
I call Eric my wind of calm. He arrives home from work, and the chaos almost instantly alleviates. The girls are distracted by him, there’s one more set of hands to headlock handle dinner battles, and his patience is fresh from his drive home…and untainted by 1.5 hours of 2-under-5 (years)-around-5 (p.m.) drama.
We get through the girls’ dinner. We go see my new office space, yelling at each other over Lucy and Alice screeching, giggling, tripping and throwing drywall dust in the air. We grab Thai as a treat to eat after the girls are in bed.
And when they are, we literally collapse on the couch, plates on our lap, to watch some trashy TV. We grin in the triumph of silence.
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He calls me a donkey. I pretend to stab his ear with kitchen scissors. He makes fun of my canning (“Glad we’re all stocked for the long, harsh winter with our NINE JARS OF RELISH AND PICKLES.”) and I his taste (“How can you tell if that melon is rotten when your claim to fame is once eating sour milk on cereal for three days?“).
We like to wrestle. He hates spit so I always lick him and win.
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Seven years ago at this time, we were tipsy on love, Jackson Triggs dry white wine, and the most perfect wedding ever surrounded by family and friends.
My Eric: Thanks for keeping all my itches scratched. Happy anniversary.












































