Happy NINTH Anniversary, jerk.

Welp, yesterday was Tucker and my anniversary.

I don’t remember what year the blessed event occurred; I use Sophie‘s age (minus ~~two~~ one years) to keep up with the quantity of years. I figure if I remember the month and day, I’m doing pretty good.

And normally I do.

Except for this year.

Correction on my math:

Apparently I’m only supposed to be taking one year off of Sophie’s age to get to the length of our marriage. SO, A-2≠D. The correct formula is A-1=D. (With A being Sophie’s age and D being duration of marriage.) Tucker edumacated me on that last night when he asked, “Do you know how many years we’ve been married?” I told him eight years. “Nope.” Then he informed me of my flawed math. And I quote, “You suckified that up.”

When did I realize yesterday was our anniversary? Sometime midmorning when Mom called on Skype to wish us a Happy Anniversary.

She was all, “Happy Anniversary,” and I was all looking from Tucker’s iPad to my desktop’s date and back again; I seriously didn’t believe her.

I literally pulled one of these:

OK. I’m making it sound like I always remember way in advance. Not so much. But I usually remember at least two or three days prior. I hadn’t gotten Tucker a present. Hell, I hadn’t even bought him a card…or even DIYd it.

I spent the day in a micro-funk due to my most awesome memory slip.

Rational Amy Brain (Yes, that part does exist.) told me Tucker would have been micro-annoyed since we’re strapped for cash because of sequestration. (Gotta love bureaucratic pissing contests which affect Tucker’s paycheck and our budget.)

Irrational Amy Brain lectured me about what’s supposed to happen on anniversaries (e.g., candy, flowers, dinner, long walks on the beach).

Actually, ours would be more like: bacon and chocolate cupcakes, Bombay Sapphire, sitting on the couch with most awesome pizza (sans kids) and playing video games.

Rational Amy Brain again brought up the money issue and our lack of readily available childcare.

IAB (Irrational Amy Brain): But anniversaries are supposed to be special!

RAB (Rational Amy Brain): We’ve been married to the man for nine years. We got lucky, girl. Be thankful.

IAB: RAB never has been great at that whole “romantic” thing. You’re not going to listen to it, are you?

RAB: Must I remind you it was IAB that inspired the ridiculously expensive Phi Mu plate purchase?

IAB: RAB is such a cow. MOO!

RAB: See? Rational as setting off fireworks in a barn full of hay.

Know what’s funny?

Tucker didn’t remember either.

He got home and talked about his day. I almost cringed when he walked in the house since I was SURE he would have something. He handed me a Starbucks card.

“Where’d this come from?” I asked–more almost-cringe.

“Ollie’s karate place sent it as a ‘two month anniversary gift.”

“Oh.”

I had been so worried–and expectant–of a gift that, when Tucker didn’t present one, I was micro-upset. IAB strikes again!

Curse you!

So what did we end up doing?

I gave the kids cereal for dinner since Cara decided to ignore me telling her she didn’t need a snack since we were about to have dinner and proceeded to get herself some dry cereal. I added milk. I’m awesome.

Tucker had leftovers. I bathed the kids and put them to bed. Normal stuff.

We ended up getting clothes back on the kids and going down the street to the impromptu cul de sac fireworks show; it’s supposed to storm through the entire weekend or something dumb.

Fireworks! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Came home. Dumped the kids back in bed and then Tucker watched Let’s Play videos on his iPad and I hung out in the garage and wrote this on my geriatric laptop, Darwin.

With the exception of the fireworks show, it was a normal night at the Tucker house.

And I’m cool with that.

In the end, RAB was right…as it often tends to be.

I should be thankful for Tucker.

I am.

Tucker works his dick into the dirt to make sure we have the money available to buy the things we need–and sometimes the things we want. He rarely acts like a complete tool without reason and puts up with all the crap I throw at him. (I assure you the reverse is also true.)

Though he might–sometimes–say otherwise, he’s one hell of a patient father who hand-sews Halloween costumes. Who writes most awesome, jargon-rich, “official” Tooth Fairy letters. Who makes school projects for Cara which are far better than anything I could ever create.

Did I mention the rice krispie chicken he sculpted?

Tucker’s loyal, faithful, dependable and someone who gets me better than I get myself and I still haven’t managed to scare him off.