We celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary this week.

We celebrated with a day of flu-ridden children, runny noses, hacking coughs, low grade fevers, and a tiny baby who wouldn’t nurse or sleep.

We celebrated as I wept uncontrollably on the couch, crumbling under the days of sickness behind us and the weight of more to come.

We celebrated as my husband washed the dishes, folded laundry, and wiped noses so I could sit for endless moments on the couch with a screaming infant.

We celebrated with sighing glances across the living room as the fourth full-length-feature film started on our television, hot little bodies slumped on the pillows next to us.

We celebrated exhaustion, frustration, annoyance, and pain.

We celebrated each other.

Some years our anniversary has meant a trip or a dinner or a movie or each other.

This year, it meant doing the things that needed to be done.  Even when the sight of another slimy, green-encrusted, boogery nose made us want to gag.  Even when the ongoing looper of whiny preschoolers drove us to the limits of our patience.

When it comes down to it, that’s what anniversaries are celebrating.  The choice.  The first choice of many, many choices to prefer, serve, sacrifice, give, choose, and love.

Happy, happy Anniversary.

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