Today is his birthday.
But you won’t catch me giving him a birthday card. Nope. I stopped six years ago.
You see, the only thing he likes less than tomatoes or bad drivers or the Orlando Magic choking in the fourth quarter… is shopping for a greeting card.
So in 2014, we broke up with Hallmark and started something new.
We call them our books, and we each have one.
Here’s how it works. It’s pretty simple (and pretty genius). When faced with a card-worthy occasion, we write in each other’s book. The end.
Valentine’s Day. ✔️
Anniversary. ✔️
Father’s Day. ✔️
Birthday. ✔️
Because. ✔️
While I have no qualms about publicly sharing my heart, the words inside his book are only for him. Private love letters. Busting at the seams with mush and gush. Handwritten messages. Photographs glued to pages. An ongoing compilation of our ongoing story. (A cool thing to bequeath to our children one day.)
So today, February 20, marks one of those card-worthy occasions… and the orange ribbon marks the page.
Happy birthday, my love. ❤️