It’s been a while since I was last sick, and a lot has changed since our summer bout with rotovirus. For one thing, Toddler-tron is, well, a LOT more mobile. For another, I was the first one to get this particular strain of 24-hour stomach flu. Passed out on the couch, a little reminiscent of miserable hangovers from college days of yore, I could only slightly marvel at just how much my husband was doing. He took care of dinner, bedtime, and middle-of-the-night wake-up. He lined up a morning sitter, did the breakfast and morning routine, scheduled his day so he could come home for lunch, and then brought us dinner (“Look, honey, we didn’t dirty a lot of dishes tonight!” he commented to me, as I was mournfully looking at the mountains by my sink.)

Toddler-tron mostly amused herself when she got back to me; sadly, it was at the expense of what little order existed in my house. I started feeling hungry again mid-afternoon, and fully human after I braved a few pieces of chicken and some Tylenol.

So, on “the morning after,” as I survey the wreckage of my house, I can’t help but think that this is a most appropriate way to begin reflections on my anniversary. It was on this day, three years ago, that we vowed all the usual. With the dishes piled by the sink and the tornado of toys throughout the house, the piles of paper and the heaps of laundry, I see evidence that I’m as happy as I’ve ever been, all thanks to my dear husband and this amazing adventure of marriage.