It’s still Valentine’s Day, right? This counts.
In honor of my Baby-Mama, for all the things I didn’t do for her today.
I love you like a 7th hour of sleep.
I love you enough to be wrong for the rest of our lives together.
If I had to choose between you and coffee I’d choose you in an instant. And start drinking meth dissolved in Red Bull.
My love for you is the only thing I feel more acutely than joint pain.
My love for you must burst forth, and not even the highest-quality, most securely-fastened diaper could stop it from a blowout. And I didn’t mean that in a dirty way at all.
Unless you think it’s funny.
When toddlers dream and the dishes are done, when all the fluids are cleaned up and we’ve figured out what that smell is, when the books about trains have lost their allure and we’ve both found our keys – so ’round about 8:30 – I love you so much that I won’t wake you up to tell you you’re beautiful. I’ll just leave a note.
Happy Valentine’s Day, gorgeous. The hours are long and the years are short and I’m so very grateful I’m sharing this messy adventure with you.