I fell in love with my husband on Valentine’s Day 2003. It was a Friday and we were 15 years old. We had been dating for four months and he put a teddy bear in my locker. Still being too young to drive, my mom picked us up from school to go back to my house and we stopped by his house so he could get the roses his mom had picked up for him to give me. I told you we were young.
It was a typical Friday that just happened to be Valentine’s Day. We watched a movie, ate dinner with my parents and did things on the purple couch in the basement—the couch I eventually lost my virginity on (not that day though). It all perfectly showcased how our relationship formed in that awkward stage of mixed adolescence and adulthood.
We had already said the big ‘L’ word a few weeks prior but it was a bit premature at the time and wasn’t said very often. Around 6:00 that night I started to feel a bit off and within an hour I was really sick. I refused to vomit in front of him and spent the remainder of the evening asleep on that same purple couch—attempting not to puke. Ian tried to get the TV working but my dad had a super convoluted cable system that only I could work (still does actually). So, for four hours—before smartphones existed—my 15-year-old boyfriend laid with me and rubbed my back and showed me what it meant to love someone. Although I think it was one of the only times he was happy to see his dad at the front door at 10:00 (sharp! He was always on time).
I have loved my husband for 14 years today—Valentine’s Day 2017. We don’t really celebrate February 14 in any significant way except using it as an excuse to order sushi and have a couple glasses of wine after the children go to bed. But I always think of us, just kids, falling in love. The journey so far has been happy, rocky, exciting and unexpected. Through it all, it has always been easy to love him. Always.