you and me

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Sheldon and Miranda, 2005

You just went upstairs, on the eve of your 45th birthday, to sleep on a mattress on the floor of your daughter's room. She isn't quite ready to sleep alone. You'll wake up early with her while I sleep in with your other daughter. I am downstairs nursing her while I type this one-handed.

I still remember the day we put your 11 month old son in the backseat of the truck and drove those 45 minutes so my parents could meet you both for the first time. It should be strange that we chose to do it like that. Introducing my new boyfriend and his young son to my parents at the same time, just weeks after we met. But it wasn't strange. That's what's so remarkable.

The other day, you were looking through some old paperwork from 2005. You turned to me and said, "We weren't married then," and made a little sad face and went back to working. It was a sweet moment. I didn't say anything, but thought about it as I changed the baby's diaper, and you know what? We may not have been married then, but we were family. We've been family from the very start.

Happy birthday, Sheldon. I am grateful everyday that we are living this life together.