Nine years ago on this day, twelve college students in central Illinois crammed a week’s worth of luggage and themselves into two too-small minivans. Bound for the East Coast and armed with little more than a pitch pipe and our voices, we were a college a cappella group on spring break tour, at the ready to sing for our suppers and crash on dorm room floors.

Traditional spring break destinations be damned! Who needs sun and sex in Fort Lauderdale when you’ve got freezing New England rain and a sleeping bag? With tens of fans turning out for your shows? This was a cappella, baby! Our rendition of Billy Joel’s “For The Longest Time” never sounded so good.

We departed at sundown, immediately after midterm exams, and drove through the night, the sun rising on us somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania with hundreds more miles to go. Somewhere in between, as I listened to the mix tape he made for me, Rob reached over and took my hand for the very first time.

Then we made out a little in the back seat.

Like oh so many great romances that stand the test of time, ours got started super classy.

These first few warmer days in March will always remind me of what it first felt like to really fall in love, and to be loved in return. It made me a different person. I remember those days as the happiest time of my life, and yet, nine years later, every new day together is still better than the last.

Happy anniversary to the one who finds my particular flavor of crazy not just tolerable but actually (sometimes) (maybe?) endearing. You still make me feel like being a better person, even though I’m too lazy to actually do anything about it.

And yes, even though we’re married now, you still “get credit for all the dating years.” All nine of them!

This photo was taken the day after we got back from that spring break tour. We are such babies! Look how fresh and unlined our faces are! And check out my crunchy hair, super sexy going-out top, and chipmunk cheeks. It’s such a wonder that Rob was the only guy who was after me.

Bad dog mom that I am, I had almost forgotten that today is Molly’s birthday!

I always think her birthday is in February, but that’s actually the anniversary of the day we drove 20 hours round trip in a sleeting-sideways blizzard to pick her up in Missouri, Rob grumbling the whole way there about how he doesn’t want a non-human living in his house, and then the woman pulled from the back of her Suburban this quivering ball of fuzz, sopping in its own vomit and urine, and Rob took one look, gasped audibly and exclaimed, ”Look at that face!” the way only a man smitten with an animal baby can. And then Molly clung fearfully to me the whole way home, and I didn’t just tolerate it but almost kind of liked it, and it occurred to me that that is the way mothers must feel about their babies’ poop — not only is it just not that bad, but its endearing to the point of being pleasant. Almost. Especially if the poor thing is sick and frightened and clinging to you for dear life, and all you want in the world is for her to know she’s safe and to wag her tail.

Happy Birthday, Molly! Today you are three years old. Now that the Terrible Twos are behind us, I expect you will comport yourself with the civility and decorum befitting of your age.

To that end, instead of complaining about how horrendous of a little monster you can be, I’ll share some footage of you being the very dear little doggie that I love.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Happy birthday, Molls!