Happy birtday Bubs!

Every year you protest how big of a deal I make your birthday. Every year, I ignore you. It’s been happening for twenty years now (even the year we were broken up), so don’t ever expect it to stop.

This blog is scheduled to post at midnight on December 19th. If you’re awake to read it, you’ve got so much more in store for you today, my little almost-thirty-four-year-old. Oh—sorry. Every year your mom reminds me you were born at 2:42 pm at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Albuquerque. I guess I’m not the only woman who thinks you’re basically Jesus incarnate. Lucky for you, you now have two daughters who also believe the world should stop and part to let you pass. Anyway, when this posts you’ll still have a while until you’re “officially” 34.

I always struggle to pinpoint when I first met you. I think I just noticed you one day at your grandparents’ house after you moved to town. But my first concrete memory of you is the one where you were being a total smart-ass in Sunday school.

You were sitting in the back, annoyed, just wanting to read a magazine about fighter planes. Mrs. Andreeson made you participate, and in true Craig fashion you responded, “I don’t understand how Jesus wasn’t a time traveler.”

She said, very calmly, “Oh no, that’s not possible.”

You replied, “Well, Luke has him in Jerusalem while Matthew has him in Egypt. At the same time.”

She quietly told you to go back to your magazine.

Meanwhile, a dopey little blonde girl was sitting criss-cross applesauce in the front row with her hand eagerly raised, answering every question with, “Because that’s what God wants us to do.”

It’s also wild to me that some women have stories about meeting their spouse through smooth pickup lines in bars or apps. My husband’s pickup line was, “Uh… my mom says I have to help you with math.”

And it wasn’t even fifteen minutes later—when you smelled like Irish Spring soap—that I was truly, completely, hopelessly in love with you. I haven’t stopped being enamored since.

Not that I always think it’s fair. So let’s do a quick breakdown.

You got: an emotional basket case who asks, “Do you still really love me?” at least once a day and cries if she has to pump her own gas.

I got: a man who texts if he’s going to be more than five minutes late and keeps our budget and net worth accurate to the penny.

You got: an incessant extrovert who snapped at you for saying “…maybe that dress is a little short…” for her cousin’s wedding—forcing you to shadow me all day so my ass didn’t make a surprise appearance at a family function.

I got: a man who puts on Air Force mess dress and looks like he stepped straight off a Hollywood soundstage.

You got: a household where it isn’t unusual to hear, “My sister is sleeping with me tonight—she had a rough day. I think the sheets for the sewing-room bed are still in the dryer.”

I got: a man who is patient, kind, and almost never complains about the chaos I regularly drop into his lap.

You got: a girl who can admit she’s “cute,” but still still cries because her nose is too big and pointy and thinks her eyes take up too much real estate.

I got: a man who, on at least two occasions, has been asked, “You are so tall, and that bone structure?—have you ever considered modeling?”

And that’s not even all. You’re quiet—but when you choose not to be, you’re the funniest person in the room. You make me laugh harder than anyone ever has. I have more fun with you than I thought was possible.

I’m a ridiculous rule-follower by nature, and you know exactly how to stretch and bend rules intelligently—sometimes just for fun, sometimes because you see things other people don’t. With that foresight and insight, you’ve given me and our kids a sense of safety and opportunity most women could only dream of.

You’ve given me three beautiful, healthy children. And every single one of them thinks the moon and stars rise on your shoulders.

They aren’t wrong.

I think the sun sets behind your silhouette.

So happy birthday, my love. I’ll keep making a big deal out of you for as long as you’ll let me—especially when you don’t. Not too bad for a guy who wasn’t even born in Texas.

(Albuquerque. Seriously?)