Let me tell you about my wife, please.
If she weren't polite, she would tell you I'm an insufferable ass.
If she weren't classy, she'd say I'm useless when it comes to chores, impatient with children (my own and others) and ungrateful to her, her mother, my mother and others who bend over backwards for me.
If she weren't selfless, she'd enumerate all the times she's gotten up early with children to let me sleep, only for me to leave town again meaning she has to do the same thing tomorrow.
If she weren't gracious, she'd tell you I'm self-absorbed to the point of narcissistic and thinks the phrase "her needs" describes something in the kitchen she does with dough ... or something.
If she weren't loving, she'd list examples proving any notion of me participating in raising my children is laughable and why my definition of a "home project" is never more complicated than taking out the trash.
If she weren't tough, she would have never had two of the most beautiful children to grace the earth knowing their father is and will forever be very more work than them.
If she weren't demure, she'd explain that she does all the work, makes all the decisions and then takes all the blame when I don't like what's for dinner.
And if she weren't forgiving, she'd call a lawyer and divorce me.
But she is all those things, and so very much more. And today, she's been my wife for 10 years ... in a row.
I am, hands down, the luckiest man on the planet.
To the moon, my dear. And back.
