Mr. O and The Buster at about this time last year.
Mr. O and I met at a museum lecture about printing presses. I was late, and as fate would have it, the only empty seat was next to Mr. O. He smiled at me, I smiled at him. I wish that I could say that it was love at first sight, but it wasn't. I don't think we said more than a dozen words to each other: "Is this seat taken?" "No, go ahead."
We were formally introduced a few months later, and the possibility of love should have been crushed when I yelled something at him about being obnoxious (yes, I really did). An ordinary man would have run. But for some reason that I still don't fully understand, he fell in love with me instead.
Mr. O is one of the most patient people that I know--even though sometimes I accuse him of being otherwise. He tolerates my anxiety and insecurities, believing in me when I don't believe in myself. I will be the first to admit that being married to me cannot possibly be a cakewalk, yet he keeps on loving me through all my ups and downs. He is the best husband, the best dad, and my best friend. So, Happy Birthday, Mr. O. I love you the most.