When we met, you were 22 years old. I remember the first time I saw you, clearly, like a frame out of a movie: you were standing behind the Business counter, wearing a knit cap and a striped yellow shirt over a thermal one. You had a clipboard and were taking notes during the morning meeting. One of the managers referenced you, and you dipped your head in acknowledgment. I couldn’t read you. Most people I’d developed almost a sixth sense for feeling out: their personalities, their motives. You were a blank slate. You had sideburns and a slight five o’clock shadow, which was sexy and novel to me, since most boys my age didn’t need to shave. Your lips were pursed, but later that day I noticed that your front two canines were pushed forward. I loved that.

There were other boys before you, most of them obsessions or distractions, but you were different: you were honest, you were complex, you were smart, you were as strong and stubborn as I was, and you had the capacity to give yourself completely. I’d never experienced that kind of loyalty. You accepted my flaws and celebrated my strengths. You just LOVED me, unconditionally, and you would have loved me whether it was returned or not. You changed my entire view on men. You changed the sort of woman that I wanted to be.

We didn’t do it the easy way. Heh. We got married fast and had a family early. We’ve worked late, we’ve lost jobs, we’ve scrimped and strained through some crappy times. We always had each other, though. We believed in the other person, and we had faith in our relationship. I know most married people have a moment of wondering if they made the right decision, but that has truthfully never happened with you. I knew from the beginning. I knew that no matter how much the outside world sucked, you were the one thing that always made sense to me.

And here we are, seven years later. You: what to say about you. You are my favorite, my best friend. Every time I figure you out, you morph into something else; like a puzzle you can keep rearranging into a familiar face. Right now, you are a network engineer. You are good at your job, and you love it. You play basketball whenever you can. You’re getting thinner and tanner, even though you don’t seem to notice it. Your dad bought you a special outfit for your neighborhood games, which is mesh shorts with a moisture wicking top, and you wash and wear it about five times a week. You like to watch reality shows and crime dramas at night after dinner, and Thursday Night is your favorite (Lost, Survivor, The Office). Most nights, you go to sleep around midnight. You always complain about how old you are, but you still live like a teenager in some ways– video games, junk food, visiting friends, late nights. You’re a great father. The kids adore you, and make sure to see you off to work and greet you at the end of the day with hugs and kisses. You spend quality time with each of them; dancing with Addie, reading comic books to Eli. And then there’s time for just us. I’m so glad we haven’t lost that, that playful flirtation– the way you always growl at me when I’m making breakfast, or I whistle when you get out of the shower. I know it’s going to totally embarrass our kids later, but I’m glad we became a couple who has children, and not parents who incidentally are married.

Today was your birthday, and you turned 29. I had all these great ideas about how it was going to turn out. I was going to get you your favorite breakfast, have balloons waiting, have flowers delivered to your office, take you out to dinner, rent a movie, buy you a video game. We finally have money and time, and I wanted to shower you with both. Life got in the way. The rest of the family is sick, and I was too exhausted to run out this morning. You had a visit from the yearly auditors at work. You came home late. I rubbed your feet and coughed. There was no way we were going out anyplace nice for dinner. I popped cheap pizza in the oven, and we watched some TV, talking. I suggested the video games, and you said you’d like that; it would be nice to get a present. I was too under the weather to go out, even though I offered, and you drove yourself to GameStop.

I felt like the worst wife ever. I really wanted this to be awesome for you. The kids hacked themselves into waking and I got them down, one at a time, each one popping back up a moment later; a sick children Whack-A-Mole. I got them drinks and rubbed their backs so you could have an hour or two to play your new games. When I came downstairs after an hour of Nick at Nite, you were waiting in the living room.

Your eyes were bright and excited. Thanks, you said. You were having a good time. You had ‘Assassin’s Creed’ running in the background, and our house glowed with soft light around you. I went to write this entry, and you fell asleep on the couch. You’re lying there now– XBox controller still in the right hand, left one over your chest, eyes closed, dark thick eyelashes resting on your cheek. Wearing your favorite moisture wicking outfit.

God, I love you. Happy birthday, Jason.