Of the thousand and one things I want to write about: my recent trips, deaths, births, weddings, health scares, and general hat ass-ery, I found these bits and pieces in my old drafts folder and felt compelled to dust it off and see what it looks like in the light…

This one is for our kids, Gabriel and Katelyn.

Your father is my home.

We could be living in a second-floor apartment that floods, or a roach-infested hole in front of a refrigerator-repair shop (both true), or turning tricks on some dark street corner to support a ruinous habit of collecting Faberge eggs (might not be true). Whatever the situation is, as long as I am holding his hand, I know I’m home (Gabriel, now would be a good time to help your hurling girlfriend tie her hair back so it doesn’t get in the vomit).

In a world where two strangers meet on a Monday morning, get married by Tuesday at lunch, are cheating on each other by Wednesday, and discussing who gets custody of the pets by Friday… 6 years is (apparently) epic. When people find out it’s been that long, we used to have to pay for their reparative jaw surgeries.

That’s quickly followed by “so how did you guys meet?” (or more often than not, it was “how long were you trolling online for this one?”)

Ok kids, grab a blanket, some popcorn, and try to stay toasty. Katelyn, stop hitting your brother with his mitt. Here’s the story of how I met your father…