Thursday, June 30, 2016

A Dirty, Dirty Dozen Years

TWELVE years ago, Mr. Wright, our (then) five kids, the cousin living in our garage and I made a little trip out to Bullet Bob's Freedom Compound, and got hitched. 

No one thought it was a good idea, including our respective families, friends, and perhaps ourselves. In fact, Mr. Wright didn't even tell his family he planned on marrying me until we were on our way. 

I think the conversation went something like this:

"We'll be a bit late arriving at the family condo this week, because I'm getting married today." 

It may have seemed like a safe time to break the news, because anyone who might speak up during that "if anyone objects to this union" part was already three hours away. 

His cousins started a betting pool in how long it would last. No one put in for more than six months to year, but we're stubborn. 

So, we said our vows in a field of daisies, joining all our kids into one family. When we did finally arrive at the condo, everyone was asleep and the beds were full. 

We spent our wedding night in the back of our Suburban. 

I loved you that day, Greg, and I love you today. I've even loved you most of the days in between, even when I'm not capable of loving myself. We've gained three more kids, and a lot more chaos, but I wouldn't change a thing. 

Happy anniversary!

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