Yesterday was the 7th anniversary of the best party I have ever attended. EVER. It had everything I love about a good party… great food, lots of drinks, a candy bar, a chocolate fountain, lots of dancing, late-night DJ playing Bon Jovi and Bruce to a Jersey-centric crowd, and most importantly, almost all of my closest friends and family. The party was my wedding, so you may think I’m biased, but honestly, I’m being completely objective when I say that it was the best party ever in the history of ever.
Anyway, it has been a pretty busy seven years for us. We had only started living together a few weeks before we got married, so there was THAT whole transition. (I’m talking about the proverbial “He really leaves the cap off the toothpaste? People really do that?” arguments discoveries.)
And then there was the whole “having 16 kids in four years” thing. So almost immediately we were debating the pros and cons of having an amnio instead of debating Indian vs. Thai food (spoiler alert: naan wins.) We started talking about cribs and diapers instead of Jazzfest and Phish shows. And the biggest change… like sooo many other brave Suburban Migrators before us, we went from an awesome apartment in the Village to suburban life – minivan, swingset, soccer fields and all.
The point is, that as we drove down to the Jersey Shore on our 7th Anniversary – I mean, how else would anyone spend their 7th Anniversary duh – I started thinking about how seven years is when you’re supposed to get that itch or something?
But I couldn’t help but wonder.. who the hell has time for a rash? (Ba dum dum. I was going for Carrie Bradshaw there… did you get it?)
No, I really started thinking – as best I could from the middle row where I sat so that I could dole out goldfish the glassy-eyed kids who would only remove their eyes from “Hotel for Dogs” to HIT EACH OTHER and then ask for more snacks – and this is what I realized:
These are our Salad Years.
Go ahead. Take a moment to relish in the profoundity. (Shut up; it’s a word now.)
I mean it, SALAD YEARS. OK, let me take you through my whole internal dialogue (and external yelling) during that car ride. And this is honestly, 100% completely how it went down in my brain:
Seven years. Hmmm. Feels like longer. Maybe because we’ve been macking out* for 20 years. Or maybe because we had all these freaking kids in – Hey guys, a little less screaming back there – a short period of time. But you know what? We are really so lucky. So blessed. We are going to look back on this time and – Loud One, please stop reaching out and waving your hands in The Nibbit’s face – realize that these were great times. Sure the kids can be – Nibbit, PLEASE STOP IT. Saying, “Neh, neh, neh, neh, neh, neh, neh” over and over again is neither cute charming nor– slightly less than perfect, but they’re mostly sweet and – I AM NOT KIDDING. KNOCK IT OFF – cute and funny. We’re going to think back and remember being able to travel with Grandma and Grammy & Pop and the cousins – Shhhhhhhhh! – and how are biggest concerns were sleep schedules and – PLEASE do not wake Happy Dude up – meal-planning. I think these are what they call the Salad Years. Wait, is that right? Why do they call good times “salad years” anyway? – QUIET GAME TIME! – I’m going to have to Wiki that one because that’s ridiculous.** The really good times should be called something like … the Sugar Years. Or the Heavy Carbs Years. Although maybe it applies to the fact that right now, my biggest stress is that I really should be eating less sugar and heavy carbs and more salad. Huh. What do you know, it IS appropriate.
Despite my rambling train[wreck] of thought, my [cheesy as it may be] overall sentiment remains the same… I feel truly blessed.
I have an incredible family. Seriously, like the best one of the planet. If there were Olympics for families, mine would be like the Russian gymnasts, Nigerian runners, Jamaican bobsledders and Michael Phelps all rolled into one team.
I have amazing friends. Old friends – who are top of mind as I spend time at the Jersey shore (minus the Steve Miller, Sun-In and baby oil) – and new friends who make me feel like life in the suburbs is actually going to be really fun.
And most importantly, I have one super awesome friend that agreed to be my date at the best party I’ve ever attended and say “Yup, I do.” (Get it? It’s KJ.) Twenty years of friendship, seven years of marriage. It’s not all
rainbows and unicorns Margaritas and beer but it’s damn close.
Trust me when I say that I am lucky in a zillion ways. I mean it. A zillion. You know how they say “count your blessings?” Well, I did. And it took a loooooong time. (And then it took even longer to knock on every piece of wood in the WORLD so as not to jinx my lucky ass.)
So, we celebrated seven years.
Yup, these are the Sugar Days for sure.
*Note to my very supportive Dad who reads all of these posts even though this type of blog is most definitely not his cup of coffee: “macking out” means hanging out innocently and doing things like reading the newspaper together. It most definitely is not a term that was created by my college roommates to reflect the kissing behaviors of one Krissy Mac.)
**It turns out that Wiki says that “Salad days” is an “idiomatic expression, referring to a youthful time, accompanied by the inexperience, enthusiasm, idealism, innocence, or indiscretion that one associates with a young person,” which, while I don’t feel particularly youthful or enthusiastic now, MAY be perfectly accurate when we look back in 20 years.
PS. One final note… for those of you that are questioning my use of “Salad Years” because it’s usually phrased as “Salad Days,” I say this: you are taking this blog too seriously. Stop it.